Thursday, September 10, 2015

House Lights at a Quarter

Promises are
Future lies
An embrace that will never happen
A caress that will never be felt
The beautiful pink of 
Fifteen lashes
Becomes an internal burden
Rather than displayed as painted flesh 
Wrists and ankles chafed  
Arms numb
Throat naked
No one to 
Start the symphony 
But I'm not allowed 
To leave the stage

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