Lady of the Night
Lady of the Night
Blessed be the ardor
of violet words
uttered in the heat of night,
whispered untrimmed,
urgent as convulsion's
approaching strains.
Where is the one
who tricked in heels,
turned on the lathe
of the procurer's sloth,
with waxing age?
Truth dissolves the mists,
banishes yesterday's lies,
lifts the curtain of darkness
to starkly reveal
the procurer's delight
is no longer there.
The lady of the night
at last is free.
Copyright © John Newlin | Year Posted 2018
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