Prostrate I look up at your feet
Dangling mere inches from my face.
They’re beautiful and though petite,
Contrive to keep me in my place.

I don’t know what I’m meant to do,
And so bespelled wait your command.
Who knew just one high heeled shoe
Could capture and leave me unmanned?

“I need a footstool lift your neck,”
I hear you softly say to me.
I raise my head and genuflect,
I’m just your footstool now I see.

I know some think this is abuse,
But it’s my joy to be of use.

Eyes taped closed to better feel
Your tendons spread beneath my hand,
I sense the tension that reveals
The stress that comes from life’s demands.
 
Gently I knead your pain away,
While working slowly down your spine.
I linger longer where you say,
I know my time is yours not mine.
 
To take your pain’s why I exist,
And even though I cannot see,
I know the beauty I have missed,
Was never meant for such as me.
 
I hear you rise and walk away,
And wait to serve another day.

Pleasure taken to extremes
Can transform into pain,
And pain in turn for some it seems
Brings pleasure once again.

This is a strange and foreign land
You’ve introduced to me;
Here ecstasy’s at your command
And I’m no longer free.

You told me it would come to this,
That I’d belong to you,
And that I’d find it sublime bliss,
I wonder how you knew?

This is the gift your whip’s kiss gave,
That it’s my joy to be your slave.

Beware the Empress of Desire
to whom like moths men bend their wings;
dark temptress for whose ice cold fire
they burn – the fate desire brings.

Ensorcelled happily they slave
to do whatever she may ask,
to grant her ev’ry wish and crave
only that she take them to task.

Ulysses knew her siren song
and he too thrilled to its demand;
writhing restrained by lashings strong
that man’s man too became unmanned.

Bespelled the poet has no choice
Except to give her beauty voice.

You need not answer ’round whom all revolve,
drawn inexorably toward their fate.
You need do nothing for all to resolve,
it is for us to move knowing you wait.

Thus planets orbit ’round their burning sun,
in chains of gravity and dark desire,
until their circling’s over and they come
to fuel at last their funeral pyre.

Like this in ev’ry sphere the greater rules
and so the weaker yields as he must.
To protest this is useless and he fools
only himself who calls his fate unjust.

I would change nothing even could I choose;
the poet’s made to wait upon his muse.