jarred glass in her hair
steely eyes deep in cold stare
stripped to black leather
bull whip in her hand
willing boy no longer stands
fettered to the wall
she secures each lock
her mind on load, like a glock
natural surrender
ties blindfold in place
steps back to value his grace
lights sixty candles
proceeds to her mark
shadowed energy so dark
cracks the whip to skin
which she does over again
striped music dances on red
`t. imaan tretchicovmanicova
7jan09
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