About my regular early morn I went,
When such a sight I did see
That my eyes could only do
What they had been created for.
Out of place,
Not the regular sort,
So young, so frail,
Yet bold enough
To walk the street
Clad in nothing
But garments the world
Was not originally meant to see.
Their bright pink sheen,
Outlined in a delicate black lace,
With tall, bright silver boots
That had only one indisputable use.
Long, beautiful dark strands of your early youth,
Harshly and vagrantly now peppered mostly
With false, loose golden waves.
Milky white skin,
And a young, nubile frame,
Both clear guides
You were fairly new to this wretched game.
They were ghostly eyes,
Outlined in such stark black powder,
Not quite glazed,
Not quite lost,
Yet still not quite here.
They seemed to blame me
For what you’d done
The night before.
Yet, I assure you, my dear,
Your wanton acts were of your doing,
And not of the collectively oppressing,
Though I know we are who you blame
Each and every morning after
For what you were forced to do
Across the night before.
In a different light,
Perhaps on a different morn,
My sympathies you would have garnered,
But you will get not from me
The second blink of an eye
As your nearly naked frame calls out, “Gaze on me,”
While those lost, frail eyes so very correctly
Show the true state of your soul.
When the point of no return you have reached,
You will cry out for forgiveness and understanding,
They will tell me that you had no other choice,
But both you and I, my dear, know
The choice was always, always, yours to be made.
