Carved by His Hand

Complicit in your responses, feeding me the words I long to hear,
Yet I listen to the subtle ironies and undertones,
The microcosmic expressions that barely give you away,
Painful intentions to control and subjugate.
I sense it, I feel it,
Yet our secrets shared lock us in destiny’s arms.

Caution creeps in, and I play the fool, or perhaps the fool plays me,
‘Sister Aurora, a Godly woman in dress, but something wicked hides,’
My dishonest words cascade from the ridge, testing him.
‘Creator of murals, creator of etchings on soft skin her hubris.’
Do you sense my deception?

‘Artist becomes subject to our vision, stilled and starved.’
He gives nothing away, lacks expression, I delve deeper.
‘Charitable member of our priory, answerable only to God. Or us.’
My fingers trace patterns about his neck and shoulders.
‘She would come if called, assistance in the community.’

The snare is set, the seed of an idea rapidly shooting and blooming,
My grip tightens, kneading the tense flesh of my dire lover.
Needing the rigid flesh of my lover, gasping for his accord.
‘Would she not make the perfect subject for our canvas?’
My lips brush his as I await his stern response.

Inside I burn,
Inside I fear,
Inside I tremble,
Inside my suspicion flowers.
Is this what you desire?
Am I to be carved by your hand?