woeman

she is a woman

brown skin pulled over
exhausted bones
caustic tones of
rhythmic moans
is her only music
the orbs of her eyes
streak red with jaded vision
like the animal tracks
scaling her stomach
in crimson incisions

those were the remnants of
her past decisions

she is a woman

bent back hovered over
a wired stage of lights
dirty white tights
tautly wrapped on
long legs once pegged for
walking towards other dreams
as pretend lovers admire her
reflected image of
red satin painted on
dark coffee curves

her purpose here is
only to serve

she is a woman

platinum blonde wig covering
ebon plaited hair
the long tresses fall over
her fallen breasts
the voices around her
bellow
for her to strip her self
of what’s left
below

no rest for the weary
just completion of the show

she is a woman

faded figure of
absent rigor
their claps trigger
her every movement
only eager
is her reach
for each
dollar bill
the one thing she’d
kill for
give up her
free will for

her humanity’s fake
she’s seen as a real whore

but she IS a woman
a woman who strips
her voice speaks from between
two full lips
her spirit leaks
through her satin seams
her soul still creeps
towards her distant dreams