Her silent steps the night takes,
ink-stained fingers sculpt erotica:
She is the child of disillusionment.
Crooked smile hears the words outside her head-
within reach, but not quite.

The mirrors in her room reflect
the kohl of her achievements;
she is a stream long run dry
in desperation for agriculture.

The cigarettes blister her lips
in the careless moments of broken shards;
she is the firefly caught in the summer storm,
beckoning lights have shut the windows.

Her world towers and reproves the thought
of her on the charcoal street;
she is the flower that blooms by the roads,
feeds on the dust
and craves to be steel.