When we love we love to touch the beloved.
Our hands find joy in the surprise of skin.
Here is where tenderness is uncovered.
Few frontiers hold a world more wondrous in.
Imagine the anger of their disturbance.
They cannot bear the portals his words create.
Helpless, turned inside out by his presence,
Sheltering from themselves as a crowd irate.
Made to face the pillar, the wrists bind him
Under the shadow of the angel of pain,
Who flogs, and waits, prefers a broken rhythm,
Until his back becomes a red text of shame.
His mind holds to the images of those he loves;
While his frightened skin swells under the scourge.