creepy post-impressionist artists creep on prostitutes,
                     there's lamplight glowing on that street corner
and she refuses yet another costumer's ****** offering.

broken and bent, the trees shudder as
the cold wind blows angrily,
soft skin and crisp leaves
collide,
as rain pours onto the top of your head,
no faeries or elves in this forest,
just the rain,
and your lost soul