Once with hope, once in fear,
the passing of days, that make up a year,
Twice in anguish, for thee I wait,
while scrawling poor words, against my fate,
Thrice in agony, thrice in lust,
as my body writhes, to do what it must.
O that knotted pain that belts across my waist,
that twists and tortures on my face.
O how I hurt to have my nipples pierced by pins,
or score my flesh at your whims.
O those scoring lashes of the whip are relief,
release from far darker dungeons of famine
famine for your touch and your touch beyond pelief.
Carnal sins are only the final taste sublime,
of wrapping you within, and calling you mine.