The Wasted Whore Waits

 

The wasted whore waits,
With swollen lip,
Tired eyes and mind,
She sits and stares.

Looking at nothing,
Her reflection in the glass,
Ethereal and misty,
Faded and see through.

Her soul is lost,
Drifting in the days
And nights of want,
Need, and hopeless hope.

She thinks back to days
Of difference, joy,
Reality and dreams
That no longer care.

Alone, the movement
Around her too fast
To follow, to notice
Or to touch anymore.

She takes the nod,
And joins again
The old dance of
Fear and quick comfort.

He does not notice,
She neither smiles
Nor feels, beyond
Her skirt or skin.

Her mind fades
And drifts away,
Another place and time,
Her body left behind.

 

 

copyright JD Marx 2012