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Paris Whore In The Fog

       PARIS WHORE IN THE FOG
All evening fog is settled from the ground,
not right in where it goes, nor where it's found;
the Seine makes distance to each barren tree
unmeasured from the mind to what should be,
and blended to the world that's all around.

And from the limestone walls, echos the tap
of femininity, in evening wrap;
she's hurried, lest the night finds her alone
and vulnerable to  Paris she's not known;
yet she's desirous of what couldn't hap.

The corner street lamps lend their halo'd light
grotesque in their own way, as if they might
leap out of time and drag her by the throat
and cast her down into a timeless moat,
where she would die alone 'for ends this night.

She clutches to her breasts, where minds go mad,
as if it's all the love they've ever had,
but she will cry all night, when she's alone
into the pillow love has never known,
and that's what makes her tale so very sad.

Her plea's for love, that doesn't have to end,
like only poets deem to comprehend,
but all she finds are bodies falling on
what she has sold from evening to the dawn,
and not a one could even be a friend.
© Ron Wilson aka Vee Bdosa the Doylestown Poet

Copyright © | Year Posted 2016




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Date: 12/16/2016 4:55:00 PM
An interesting and somewhat differing theme from most of the "Soups" rather mundane love and hallelujah offerings...Rather compelling in a base sort of way - Nicely conceived! A seven for original thought. My best regards, Vee. :) john
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Date: 11/25/2016 7:12:00 PM
The imagery here is amazing, I can almost feel myself there observing!
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