For the One Who Hunted and the One Who Loved

The sounds of your voices make ripples on the sands of time,

Just enough distortion to unsettle the static of hypnosis.

I’m far beneath the waters of the olive sea,

Tucked within an egg handcrafted by ancient ones.

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I’ll claim you like starlight – the side-effect of fiery wings,

Glancing down from the mirrors I lay beside you.

I’m too tired to check the mirrors today; do you think he’ll stay sleeping?

Rattle teeth in the empty jaws of his iron sentence.

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(Perhaps you are dying today, in golden fields or haunted marshes.

[Are you too old for that? Imprisoned? How desperate is his madness?]

Perhaps you are killing today. Do you ever wonder if you’re killing me?

I think you have a conscience; I think you drown it and it burns.)

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See me? I’m not so far away; hear me crying.

Something’s been shattered all within your lenticular hypocrisy.

See me walking, your ghost of springtime, through broken windows;

The cathedral of your consequence has far outgrown the pettiness of your rage.

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Somewhere in mountain regions, in inky nighttime where starry blossoms expand in wishes I made on train tracks beneath the grove’s eyes, beneath the birch leaves, the bending branches of your eternal love,

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I know why the wall between us, it grows stronger with their cunning, but I’m here now; I’ll speak to you again in counted whispers, in ancient song-forms like drifting moth wings, in rounded bread loaves, in flossy paintings stitched by day.

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My depiction of Silence cannot reach beyond your arms.

But it’s all right, lullaby-dear; it’s all right.

You hunger for nothing in your soul.

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