- Erotic Poetry
- The Frame
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Click hereOn a frame the cloth is woven,
Shaped to a product it cannot control.
On a frame the skins are tanned,
Streached naked for use.
On a frame the drum skin is pulled
So its cries are heard when struck.
I, too, was streached on a frame,
In a time beyond my control.
Streached until my joints ached--
Spread for use by makers of pain.
My cries were heard when I was struck.
And when taken down from the frame
I found that things streached on frames
Don't find their first worn shapes.
What once fit in my life before
Lies misshapen on the floor.
- COMMENTS
jthserraalmost 20 years agothe stretched skin of the drum, the open submission... once limits are stretched there is no return. Nicely done.
jim : )
