A dominant stands like a lighthouse on the shore,
strong and unwavering against the shifting tides,
its beacon cuts through the darkest storms,
offering a steady guide for the one who sails,
never forcing, but shining the way forward.
A Lighthouse On The Shore Read More »
Poetry
They do not lie to shield your heart,
The truth would tear their plans apart.
The lies are told to keep control,
To shape your choices, guard their goal.
In the quiet of the office, a glance, a harsh command,
Two souls entwined in silence, where power takes a stand.
The scent of red ink, the rustle of the pen,
Where the line between desire and restraint is drawn again.
Beyond the Secretary Read More »
Poetry
Out here, we are the edge of somewhere and nowhere,
The last stretch of stateside before the river runs south.
This town clings to the border like it forgot where to go,
Like we are all half-waiting to cross over, but never quite do.
The highway bridges at the water’s edge,
Where only the brave or the lost take that final step.
The little things build the deepest trust,
Small actions, soft words, never just a must,
A touch, a gaze, a quiet command,
Creating feelings, as if by hand.
Skis try to dig, snow hard and unforgiving,
Hear the edges bite, metal on ice, a sharp clatter,
Every turn feels too quick, not precise, no time to think, just react.
The wind cuts like a knife, hurting the skin,
It’s biting, sharp, ice stinging the face,
Breathing is sucking on frozen air, cutting into the lungs.
The flogger cracks through the air, a whisper of leather before impact,
Each strike awakens the skin, sending a ripple through nerve endings,
A sharp breath drawn in, muscles tightening under the sudden heat,
The sting bites briefly, sharp yet invigorating, a spark of life,
Sensation spreads, first as fire, then softening to a steady glow,
Tension rises and falls, the body anticipating each touch,
A quiet rhythm builds, echoing in breath and heartbeat.
The lighthouse stands alone,
its light cutting through the stillness,
facing the frozen lake,
where waves have stopped,
quiet as forgotten dreams.
The ships are gone,
their paths erased by winter’s hand,
and only the keeper remains.
The Grip of January Read More »
Poetry
The soft, smooth curve of your flesh beneath my hand,
Each strike a rhythm, a pulse, a steady command.
A shiver travels up your spine, sweet and slow,
As the sound of skin meeting skin begins to grow.
Your breath catches, a whisper of pleasure, so near,
In the air, your soft moans, a song I long to hear.