Rope Play

Under cold lights, dark air and the still, All is quiet, nothing spoken no sound, Hangs the softest of rope from the hardest of beams, Hanging in a straight sort of proud, Reaching right down to the black and white rose, The rose standing ready for more, To raise her like a dancer in the moment of yield, And display like a trophy of war, And her hands are bound tight, legs are tied back, Shoulder, head and hips cannot moan, And her hair is secured out of the way, She hangs defenceless and naked and owned, She lives for the love of these cold vivid nights, Obeys what the rope will demand, She relishes the play of losing control, When she submits to her dominant man.