Harlots

Harlots in old country born,
once used to hurt and cry
when beaten, no more.
Though storms of fists and bondage
bruise them, and
through tears their bodies still express
their lust, the wail of the witch
echoes, for she burns on the stick.
Still, the possibility of pleasure
keeps her just so alive
that forever her generations
may breathe solely for vengeance' sake.

She's witnessed the worthy master offers
the best of harlots her precious slaves,
and she cages her newborns, to live on
expecting to see an end
to this vulgar seduction of her youth.

So utterly perverted, an age contests
her celebration of her victory
over submissive behavior, 
over the master's abuse of power.
But harlots give up on love.
The children too give up on love.

Her pain from the fountain of blood
purges the new age of our confusion.
And she forgets this ordeal as well,
yet her character lives on
as the master's kingdom falls.
And our eyes reflect that endless pit
into which greatness spirals down,
into which boils the hemlock
that harlots did drink
to keep alive that spirit of vengeance
and numb the existential dread.

Like hollow mirrors, we fill our empty cups
with her lustful kiss with such flames,
a cigarette's length's worth our life
we find ablaze, swirling into the darkness,
blinding the appeal of divine music,
dispossessing ourselves of the soothing shade of sanity. 
Thence burns the sun.
Thence burns the harlots.