A Metaphorical Prison

And so we descend.
Past rusted gates,
unable to hinder our progress.
Down dimly-lit stairs
without the reassurance
of a sturdy railing.

Both my Virgil and Beatrice,
you lead me
you inspire me
you give me the courage to proceed,
through the vaulted passages
of our imagination.

We pass the creaky devices
designed on a shared sketchpad,
built by shared synapses,
a holy yet fearsome fire
soothing and enlightening;
yet foreboding in its lucidity.

We take turns
turning the wheels,
experiencing the pain
the pleasure
the shared self-torture
we've condemned ourselves to feel.

How radiant is your face
aglow with sweat.
Smiling gently
consenting to my inspection.
Head to toe
and all those areas
the centers of your femininity;
the curves of your hips,
the thinning of your wrists,
and those I gaze at
appreciatively.

Without words
we console and encourage,
remove our bonds,
return to the tatters we've ripped apart.
And we return to those stairs,
more confident in our steps
having gained the secret wisdom,
the secrets of this experience.