The stuff of dreams,
his friendly persecution, His oratory whip filleting me, slaying me,
Caressing my soul with barbed leather and chrome.
Discretion failing him, entailing him to all this cynic's treasures.
That all his words were languid kisses. . . .
His voice seeps inside me,
as though leather hog tied me, seeking furtive pleasures for our parts in our dark.
In his parlor, I bear his collar
to keep this cynic's silence.
He avoids my thorns and steals my buds,
his leather clad hands exploring me, imploring me, Daring my body, my soul,
and it's wit. He calls it my destiny, his yearning severity,
Which tames this cynic's tongue.