the ribbons threaded through her hair
silently fall onto the mirrors
surrounding her bound feet.
circular, criss-crossed patterns
gently collect onto each other
similar to the heap of silver chains
that remain silent until
each link is strung, as if
garland on a tree, about the skin
and beckoning hooks that
are the stage for his relentless play.
it is then that each shines in
the splendour of darkness creating
a beacon for their soul to find.
`t. imaan trechicovmanicova
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