at the bottom of the stairs
he lies in servitude
his naked body hardly visible
in the gloomy light
of candles of fear,
waiting as only
admirers can wait,
waiting as only
captured can wait
waiting, and longing
for the cruel beauty
of the sound of
sharp footsteps.
he knows:this cold stone floor
is his prison and his freedom,
he has no choice
and doesnt want choice:
he will proudly
offer his neck and body,
and be floor and throne
to cruelty.
classical, opera, some jazz - and of course what i write myself.. :)