Was it a tear or bead of sweat
that gathered on the pointed knife?
The answer, inconclusive,
since the blindfold bound her gaze so tight.
Treacled fear and troves of aching
yearning for the next delicious
fleshy contact put in places
never thought to look or touch.
A set of white teeth set to bite upon
a flaming lip so full with lust,
and harder than the realm of comforts
idolised by most.
The smattered pock marked
cheeks, Her softer sex raised hairs
once thought covert,
and fingers dragging past the rope
that bound her into ancient shapes
that, in that time, would come to
thoughts of zeal and cadence.
For at that moment fear collided
with the hand that cradled,
full of promising libido,
primed to enter, conquer
and create and to eventually destroy
the purer thoughts of youth and innocent regard.
Letting out a gasp, the fair one
grew to something bigger than
the concept of man or woman:
Life itself, from Spring to Winter.
The trust adorned upon Her lover
seeming foolish, even lapsed.
The tears now streamed unruly
soaking cotton rags about her face.
She tried to scream, but only whimpers
came like whispers of the night-
time creatures foraging for
sustenance, away from grim portent.
She let her captor bind the rope
that kept her in this place of senses
neither dark, nor of the light
but coloured with all gradients.
The anxious pressure, building, grew
to open up another state of
actuality and craving for a touch
of either shade.
Breathing words into her ear, the
subjugator leered his thoughts
upon Her head. The sophomoric
girl depleted, quivering, now spent.
“I will leave you now alone,
you’ll speak a word for not three days.
Remember that the one who binds you
watches you in every place.”
Seconds ticked away to hours,
slowly rising from the space,
Her bindings had been all cut off
but move, could she? Not for an age.
Death had come to shadows of her soul
upon that lost and primal moon,
She swabs at burns and wounds,
and smiles and cries in unison.