She lives in a cage, in the shed, at the bottom of a garden
Her master comes, twice daily, with food and water
She lives for him, a servant to his psyche
She has no power, slave on her knees in chains
Its simple pleasure for leisure, to serve him is to be free
Minutes in the sunshine, phallus in furs
- and a collar as a symbol of respect
Music for ******* Performance in the house
She lays down and tastes the whip on bare cheek
Obedience is taught through willing submission
Gorean affectations, willing desire and the natural order
One's journey into identity, a thrilling concept at first munch
- God will speak in good time

To dismantle social construct in a kingdom of one
Liberation at the hands of a master in leather
- and whips outstretched
Through drear smokescreens, transformation and feminisation
Slave-girl, man-child, longing for acceptance and protection
Early morn, teary-eyed sunshine creeps through a crack
Blonde wigged, bearded man wipes mascara clean away
Only two more months, every day she will be beat,
- and the sissification of the master's slave will then be complete

When they brought
the tent down,
with a sudden thud,
neatly packed the things
in their haversacks,
hurriedly in silence,
resumed the journey
on their separate ways,
he couldn't let go
of her smile
she gave him
the moment she found
they were in love
with each other.
Only a memory,
an image of what was
in a glowing moment of the past,
became more real
than the reality,
staring now at his face.

i am hunted
                        and haunted
by memories -
            once good times turned sour.

                                                               ­ vines claw and grasp at my feet
                                                            ­ while i try in vain to trudge forward.

i am picasso with paintbrush poised betwixt my teeth-
                                                          ­                                                             arms bound
                                                                ­             by a straightjacket sewn from sorrow.

the lacrimose landscape of my limbic system is a scarred battleground.
fear and regret clash with my spirit and sanity like angry gods.
i fear i may be broken.

how many times have i apologized?
'til sandpaper throat
and crimson finger
from repentance and gripping pen?

                                              not enough.