Heirloom of Cilice

 

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*A thought of restraining oneself from one’s true nature,  brought this poem into existence. The world abides Mr. West Coast Bandit

 

“Heirloom of Cilice”

Ascending the stairs in a panic,

Cobwebs abetted my jaunt.

My mood bordering manic.

Secrets concealed in this haunt.

 

Negotiating an ill placed plank,

Vented eave-lights shone the true path.

Family history buried in deep dank,

Somewhere over in back.

 

Reaching for coveted treasure,

I felt a twinge along my spine.

Immediately regretting the gesture,

Ending up lying supine.

 

Of all the boxes about me,

Was one that held gravity.

A hatbox ragged and dusty,

A veil for depravity.

 

Opening the musty parcel,

I pulled out a garment of rough.

Ran it across my bare torso,

And knew it would be enough.

 

Alighting the stairs of the attic,

My masochism barely contained.

I ogled the blood stained fabric,

Awaiting the chance at some pain.

 

My wife doesn’t know my secret,

The one I keep hidden away.

The shirt I adorn when she exits,

Provides ecstasy beyond rave.

 

An tug and a scratch,

Some surface scars.

My sins are no match,

For the barbed wire stars.

 

Cilice is the name,

my contrition warrior.

I apply it in shame,

I regard it an honor.

 

Must finish in a hurry,

She’ll be back in short time.

Avoiding discovery,

Makes forbidden action sublime.

 

Now safely stowed above me,

My portable penance hatbox.

God can’t unsee the reality,

Of life’s many hard knocks.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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