by J. Randal Matheny © 2011
On the corner stood the death of girlish dreams,
In heels and make-up, calling to passers-by.
A slave to what? Passion, greed, some need
From an empty childhood? Who can say? Not I.
The night conceals by half a series of sales,
‘Twixt darkened hearts who blindly grope in vain;
Their twisted god holds out unholy grails;
Unsatisfied, they search, time and again.