She owes them nothing yet she still goes home,
squalid glances all they can give, the walking dead,
each one  fallen away from her respect or love.
The way wet filth falls from a  city sky,
but the moon and stars still shine above.

Soiled but inviolate, not marred by callous scorn,
no dreams of pulled triggers, not anymore.
Tonight is the last.
Tomorrow will come.
Tomorrow she will fly beside Angels.