Her stilettos bang like gavels toga swathing her lithe torso she holds the scales high: ashtray and collection plate amalgam blood runs down her thighs as she uses her white cane; a sword that keeps the secret of how she lost her eyes.
If you crave discovering the pit of fire, shower the floor with your coverings and summon lust under white linen while my hungry eyes make a meal of you.
Or, if you fantasize of glowing gates drenched in golden glory, keep silent prayers tucked under your tongue, and don’t let God hear you say my name.
Bindlestick over the shoulder, thumbs up: heading my way? Shattered abacus of nominal identity, consolation prizes, mementos clutter the interstate plexus, a smile dawning on the umbral shame, ignorance truly blissful revival of my nakedness.