362 Readings | 1 Rating

The Whore’s Lament

She paves her streets with discontent,
tatoos the world across bare legs,
and every night, a strange lament;
she drinks her life down to the dregs.
Every day, same old routine,
melts hemispheres in clouds of steam,
and every night, how libertine,
like demons in an ice-man’s dream.
Each bottle houses je regret,
like staring down a rabbit-hole,
and every night, what all men get,
lost pieces of a shattered soul.
She bathes in bitter apathy,
strange liquids from strange people’s "hearts",
and every night, the misery
of knowing what she’s torn apart.
Posted 12/05/10
Again, no personal significance.
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