Sometimes you feel
like
Andromeda chained to a
rock
uncertain what
tentacled fate awaits
you
Sometimes you’re in a
big
Victorian house where
servants
bustle past and
snigger at your nudity
Sometimes its an
artist’s studio where
you can hear the
bristles brush your
flesh onto canvas
Sometimes you imagine
cold steel on your
wrists and feet and
not your
iron will
Sometimes you hear a
door
slam and a long
silence
then an opening and
the
sound of many feet
Sometimes you weep
from
both ends as you
wait for some breath
sign or touch
Sometimes the wait is
long but
always ends with a
kiss
a strong clasp and a
whispered word
(Image used by kind permission of
Holden-and-Camille.com and
Holden-and-Camille.Tumblr.com to whom I am most grateful and you should go
visit. The poem is my imagination and is not a reflection of their lifestyle)
