Those whores weren't born,
And yet you scorn.
Love thy neighbor but,
They aren't yours.
The tears you saw weren't,
Their tears of mourn.
Truly naked, to behold,
Their nudity, bold.
And they are sold,
For money, silver and gold.
Your greed flows,
Decadence borne.
Their lives, whores.
Bottom feeders, clothes torn.
Countless eyes have seen but all blind,
Countless hands reach for a soul to grind.
And when the night is done we leave behind,
All our sins, purified.
At the altars, the temples of sorrow,
At the feet of these whores.
YOU ARE READING
Often confusing
PoetrySecond part to a muses musings because wattpad has a story limit. . . I mean an enthralling book of stories
