deepundergroundpoetry.com
To His Pen, I Submit
He dips his quill in black ice and
scribes arctic winds underside
my spine
Crimson spills of Merlot wells
beneath my tongue as a lacerated lip
becomes a silencing pleasure
Cashmere fabric paralyzes my body
into a position of submission and I am
numbed by iced searing incisions,
unable to distinguish suffering from comfort
Satisfaction surfaces atop the buttery brown
dip that lies between my spine and his dream
as colors of sex, love, and pain conjugate a
lasting inscription of chiseled
quill to flesh intimacy
I placate his ego as his branding stick
becomes my emancipation
and freedom is found
woven in my mortal diary
by hand-stitched fibers
suspending this love
eternally
To his pen…I submit
scribes arctic winds underside
my spine
Crimson spills of Merlot wells
beneath my tongue as a lacerated lip
becomes a silencing pleasure
Cashmere fabric paralyzes my body
into a position of submission and I am
numbed by iced searing incisions,
unable to distinguish suffering from comfort
Satisfaction surfaces atop the buttery brown
dip that lies between my spine and his dream
as colors of sex, love, and pain conjugate a
lasting inscription of chiseled
quill to flesh intimacy
I placate his ego as his branding stick
becomes my emancipation
and freedom is found
woven in my mortal diary
by hand-stitched fibers
suspending this love
eternally
To his pen…I submit
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