I am in transition,
I speak to those who come after me,
I learn from those who come before me.

In trepidation and in fear,
I wait for the anticipation found only in her tears,
that when they bloom on the dry, thirsty wood,
marks the time to begin, I hear.

And in a whisper, a whimper, and shrill,
when cold leather makes a trail,
the heartbeat beats fainter still,
until that time when metal becomes a pill.

I make her back warm,
Melting Iron,
Smelting leather and skin,
Into leather again.

She is silent as a mouse. She sits,
remaining only a part of the beats, and his
expressed torturous tenderness.

Where consent meets fear and pain,
there is a shadowy still sadness that waits to be shown
in the light that is happiness and gain.

Some see a barbarous deceit,
in that which takes place,
but she only says,
Please.

Please.

As you wish.

I flail and flog at my own inexperience,
waiting to see,
if I make a mistake or three.
Til the time comes when she screams out loud,
I press on, deeper, deeper, until a chasm is found.

The afterglow of the torturous tenderness,
that illumines the heart and makes fuzzy the eyes,
is enough for me to see that consent remains.

I ask only the simplest questions,
Noting that she's infantile in emotions,
where high context rules,
and only those that know the code may endure.

She limps and lingers,
needing more than her fingers
as she craws safely into that safe place
called her spiritual chamber.

Having melted iron, leather and skin
been smelt into leather again,
I sigh at those wafers that cannot understand,
that the greatest of gifts is in a helping hand.

Short marvelous life
how is a man not lightning
who can see and think

I am in transition,
I speak to those who come after me,
I learn from those who come before me.

She makes my back warm,
Melting Iron,
Smelting leather and skin,
Into leather again.

Those that watch laugh with pity,
Those that study cringe with pain,
Those that judge seem too witty,
. . . . .and it is for those who cannot understand.

But I understand, now I understand.

I used to watch the poor man in the back room,
getting beat by the mean lady with a giant broom,
. . . . .with splinters.
Each splinter is again a world of wonder, he says,
. . . . .and I laughed with pity.

I used to study the piteous woman on the tree,
getting beat by the mean man with a tail of three,
. . . . .with hash marks of red.
Each hash mark of red is again a world of wonder, she says,
. . . . .and I studied, cringing in pain.

I understood when I finally fell,
off my tall horse called Brick Wall,
for he was a brick wall, after all.

There's no shame in it, they say,
so I went for it, clear as the night sky in shades of gray,
and that's when it hit me,
. . . . .as it is for those who understand.

Having had melted iron, leather, and skin,
been smelt into leather again,
I sigh at those poor folks who cannot understand,
the pure bliss of me, that woman, and man.