Some might say they wear a heart on their sleeve,
others blush a facial rush so red they bleed.
Others' secretive heat of embers rise
from an ancient hearth, deep within birth’s bed.
They burn an inward brand, through met eyes
to hands withheld beyond cuff’s end.
As collared dog will snarl, chained and hackled,
so damned pulses surge to hands and pretend
in tingling wrists bound tightly by shackles,
unsurfaced, unread, unheard, unopened.
How does one release passion’s hidden lock?
It requires no key, nor combination.
Thine own hand’s end unties the binding knot
by mere touch at hand’s origination.
