:::dreams for sleepers:::

i come down,
beneath your frame.
there is an undertow,
i unfold onto my back
not without pain.
your feet are washed,
my hair smells of lily
and you of leaf and myrrh.

i hear the others searching
i am crying for my mother
she is a whore on Linden St.
and i her only penance .
This man has taken me for love
and hers for twenty two.
i am subject to his every want
in the binding sweet and new.

gently up, he pulls my hand
and one foot upon the other
this place is sacred in my mind
i cannot leave it, he beckons me further.
i follow nimbly down the Lane
there is nothing behind me to follow,
my hand small inside, i walk beside
my captor, my Lord, my lover.

 

:::amber.hart.sinclair:::