Heirloom of Cilice



*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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