The Devine Whore

Her towering stilettos click through the corridors of Man's desire.
As the fluttering eyelashes of the dawn find her
Weary.
Bearing the fruits of vice within her womb.

Her torn and tortured flesh reeks of dripping appetites.
She is drenched in the sweat of countless nights
Of bitter ecstasy,
Locked in the ignoble embrace of disassociation.

She is ever dancing in the sullied streets
Amongst the tattered shreds of lost solicitations.
She is subject
To a footwork as ancient as insemination.

She does not laugh and her eyes are arid
For the tears of sin transcend consideration.
Yet she still cries
But her sobs are hidden behind a mask of feigned indifference.

It is this indifference, these empty upward twisting lips,
This stiffly limpid form within whose arms
Man
Finds absolution and is upward born by the pillars of her aspiration.

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