I've locked myself up,
These past two years.
I'd say I don't blame you,
But then I'd be lying.
Thanks for the gift.
I didn't know you
Could package heartbreak.
It was a little earlier
Than the holidays, but
It loves to open up
On Christmas,
And make me cry
Under the mistletoe.
You wrapped it up,
In beautiful ribbon.
Just like you wrapped me,
Up around your finger,
Two years ago.
Thanks for that.

Hope you have a wonderful holiday,
        Sincerely,
              Amara

write himself between the lines
and not at the end of them

forget himself between the writing
and not at the end of them

greet himself between the poems
and not at the end of them

want himself between the shelves
and not at the end of them

put himself between the poets
and not at the end of them

find himself between the covers
and not at the end of them

a poet shouldn't impose himself between,
at the end,

not even at the start

Love in fantastic triumph sat,
Whilst bleeding hearts around him flow'd,
For whom fresh pains he did create,
And strange tyrannic power he shew'd;
From thy bright eyes he took his fire,
Which round about in sport he hurl'd;
But 'twas from mine he took desire
Enough to undo the amorous world.

From me he took his sighs and tears,
From thee his pride and cruelty;
From me his languishments and fears,
And every killing dart from thee;
Thus thou and I the God have arm'd,
And set him up a Deity;
But my poor heart alone is harm'd,
Whilst thine the victor is, and free.