Poetry

He is Freedom

I am his whetstone-
He sharpens himself against me;
He sharpens his senses, his instincts,
His teeth.
How can I not be passive
When I am willingly
Held down?
I've no desire for escape,
But I do
As he draws me from myself...
I am drawn from myself,
Hypnotized,sodomized,
Possessed, and then,
Let go.
Let go?
To be hollow and bloodless?
Alone between dry shadows
Instead of flowing between
Myself and him...
He is freedom,
He who forces my pulse to first quicken,
Then slow,
Quicken, and slow...