“men tied in shibari”

Silken ropes in patient hands entwine,  
A quiet art where trust becomes the line—  
Not knots of pain, but intricate embrace,  
A lattice drawn with cord and quiet grace.

Men surrender to the woven map of thread,  
Each crossing loop a verse that’s softly said,  
Their bodies arch in lines the hemp will guide,  
A symphony of courage, strength, and pride.

Chest and shoulder clothed in braided strands,  
Sculptures by intention, calm commands—  
Suspended not by force, but by assent,  
A statement: “Here is where my walls are bent.”

Muscle curved against a gentle bind,  
A steady heartbeat, open, unconfined—  
In shibari’s web, a paradox is spun:  
Submission births the freedom to become.

Tethered forms like brushstrokes in a room,  
A language shaped by both the tie and whom;  
A silent story told, a bond made true,  
A trust in rope, and art re-woven new.

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