I think I’m not supposed to want
the ring, to be bound by gold.
I think I’m supposed to find shimmer false,
or cold, the outward face of things,
not their heart. I’ve always loved
the feel of restraint, real or otherwise,
the fragrant hood covering my eyes so I can see.
I’m a man. I’m not afraid to admit I’m weak.
To submit to something, knowing it will force me
open, that’s me tracing the face of what’s coming.
I give up, let my arms hang loose, let another, shrouded,
come and move them, whispering as he does
the key for the unending stream of shapes
he makes, bending each joint to the point that it breaks
and sometimes stopping.
Other times not.