March 27, 2014

His eyes lower, tracing the path his fingertips glide.
Each inch so gentle, so smooth. And so thirsty,
taking upon the wetness of his palms as he frames the body,

The knees, the hips,
the breasts, the nape,
Suffocating, his worldly hands, her prison…
His blood and sweat all she knows,
Locked in arabesque,
wearing but a distant gaze and sadness…

Does she perceive herself his Slave,
does the sculpted perceive at all?
Perhaps, but she obeys the whims of the Maker,
she is his creature to mend, and shape,
Never knowing the bliss of actual movement,
or the sensation of the Ballet…

Forever a moment, she must exist.
In peril.

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