Bound (inspired by Nightshift...the work in progress)

The first thing to tie is your tongue,
For words provide the easiest release.

Through this, any pitter patter remains imprisoned behind slightly-slanted windows to the soul,

The friction between fear and want create a signal fire burning bright enough for the eye at center-skull to see,

And I see it.

The next thing to tie is your wrists,
Experts say that pantyhouse are more effective than steel,

It's about walling yourself into a place where you cannot do,
So that I can do for you.

Next comes the thick slip of silk over the lens.

If I am out of sight,
I am out of your mind,
Or maybe you want me to drive you out of mine,

But I say no go.

Pumps with metal heels keep you off your feet,
Shackles to ankles you keep you from running away from the far side of happiness,
Where Mr. Rourke and Tattoo reside,

When bound you cannot signal the incoming plane,
When bound you are helpless victim to the hooded captor that made your waterfall run dry.

What remains is the memory of my voice just beyond your naked ear,
Baritone instructions on finding the yellow bricked road to getting your wish,
A slab of sea bass sauteed in shallots and wine in an east side kitchen where hearts are never fried,

You can see me without your careful eyes,
The prints on my fingers against your goosed flesh,
As the rain comes down,

I drink the nectar of the goddess,
On a downtown train headed north,
Journeying to the center of the spark that breaks all the ties that bind.

This summer,
Seasons past the winter of your discontent,
The little man at the crossroads will make you choose.

Red? Or Blue?

Which are you?