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Rated: E · Poetry · Fantasy · #1919575
A true story. Or not. Only she knows for sure.
( on the railing )
When the bell sounds
I hear the hounds

( softly baying )
My tortured skin
Is cloaked in sin

( black whip flaying )
My hands bound tight
Every night

( body swaying )
Mouth tastes of blood
Feet caked in mud

( mind decaying )
Lips dry and cracked
Welts on my back

( no more praying )
Wicked mistress
I will confess

( i was saying )
Yes I love you
You know I do

( thank god we are only playing )
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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/1919575-On-The-Railing