Silk and Steel
No one is sane at sixteen
when you stand before the looking glass
clutching your sorrel locks,
your head on the marble counter,
your fingers at the roots.
The ink sky is pregnant,
the moon's light full.
Supple creatures lounge about on the grass,
their voices slurred with drink.
As you stray away to sit,
to mull, to think.
Over the torture of flesh most desireable:
that of a lamb, or that of a lion.
The soft yielding body, needing such gentleness,
and the soft flesh concealing the steel beneath.
Beautiful, strong, hairless,
and slow to yield to the arms of sweet relief.
Who alive can make clear
the very thing that sets apart
the beauties of Silk,
and of Steel?
For in the dark,
the garden of their luxuries are stark,
none dominating over the other.
Have you the heart of a maiden,
or the duty of a man,
such desires of you
must be ridden,
keep them hidden,
take a scissor and enjoy the danger
of a passion forbidden.
The accursed hairs
fall in clusters to the cold tile