The clock is ticking

The clock is ticking, ticking, ticking.
Even though the clock, it has no hands.
The alarm is ringing, singing, singing
Even though the clock, it has no face.

Oh how I would sing in screams as that alarm,
please let me twitch and struggle,
as those hands once chased long and short,
for centuries wrought round.

Into the hallowed darkness you come,
and touched me softly be willing hands,
demurly, I curled my legs and sat
on edge of eager bed.

There were rivers of smooth words,
and I crystal eyes,
brightly gazed at your gorgeous flesh
until the words were only a murmured mist,
that rose up out of cataract of passion's flood.

And then this sweet ceremony of ettiquette done,
my whole self folded into the ocean that is your mind,
one urge swelled to join that inner sea with tat infinite plane of ideas,
that in your thoughts bring future to storming present.

You twisted my face to yours without prelude,
my lips the queen of cups became for you to drink from,
the whole of I was chalice for the thirst of you.

And yet this still position locked by your strength,
was freedom two degrees too much.
The ties that bind must bind,
and they must be tied.

In slow loops they came,
one over another wonder winding wound.

My succelent orbs were yanked exposed
my skirts ripped and to the air exposed
the shaking of my raptured flesh.
The air it danced upon my secrets,
rippled with desire and then with fear.

I bled sweet liquid with passions wound.

And then thrust to bed and lurched
to taut arabesque,
sprung to steel position,
so ready for your use.

My hands are tied,
the ligature writ on my slender wrists,
my face is buried deep in pillow's dark
the fabric is my air.

I have no hands, I have no face,
and yet I am the measure of what is time.