The hunted hart awaits the knife - a little love poem

The hand upon the whip is sure and kind
And has caressed this weak and trembling flesh,
Just as your voice has soothed my troubled mind.
The hart at hunt soon finds herself enmeshed
In silken cords that tighten till they bind,
And panting, haunches gleaming, waits the knife:
So are my flesh and spirit now aligned.
Renouncing former flight and useless strife,
In silent genuflection wait the kiss
Of supple leather or of gentle lip.
Which dreading more – the whisper or the hiss,
Enslaving touch, or stinging of the whip?

Victim and priestess, my own to rend apart,
But yours to take as offered, my beating heart.

truly beautiful - I love it

Sorry. I'm a reviser at heart - tried not to repost, but can't leave the other by itself when I'm beta testing.


The hand upon the whip is not unkind
And has caressed this apprehensive flesh;
Your whispered voice has quieted my mind.
The hart at hunt soon finds herself enmeshed
In silken cords that tighten till they bind,
And panting, haunches gleaming, waits the knife:
So are my flesh and spirit now aligned.
Renouncing former flight, abjuring strife,
In silent genuflection wait the kiss
Of subtle leather or of gentle lip.
Which dreading more – the whisper or the hiss,
Enslaving touch, or stinging of the whip?

Victim and priestess, my own to rend apart,
But yours to take as offered, my beating heart.