she stands in the domed stone niche
eaten by grey and by cold.
the cathedral night laughs at her
chilled naked breasts as she
reaches above for the stark iron hook.
she grasps, and gasps as tendrils of chain
embrace her and hold her arms fast.
or so it seems. in truth her bonds
are of her mind. they always suffice
as she welcomes her fate.
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2 comments:
Oatmeal Girl, our bonds are so often self imposed.
Warm hugs,
Paul.
Beautiful!
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