THE DEVILS WHORE

Sycophantic whores
chasing running scores,
stagnant sweat streams
from unwashed pores.
 
Satan’s dark sisters
tearing through her skin
reaching raging demons
screaming from within.
 
The gaunt gothic mask
upon her fragile face
conceals the flaking paint
of a dull, faded grace.
The pungent aroma
of lingering lust
disturbs the memory
of a buried disgust.
 
Taunting terrified souls
with a smirk of sultry joy
as hungry ghouls are snapping
at the feet of new-found toys.
 
At the heart of her deep dark pit
is a relentless crashing wave,
washing death and desolation
over desecrated graves.
 
Tears roll away from
the loss in her eyes,
tracing the distance
of lonely goodbyes.
Through an ancient veil,
lies a daughter’s despair,
a cold fleeting glimpse
through dull lifeless hair.
 
And the pimps and the drunks
taking pieces at whim,
as a cold seething hatred
burns her up from within.
 
The wide gaping wound
weeps bloody and sore,
from the cold black heart
of the devils whore.
 
Her make-up fades,
peeling slowly away
from the years of pain
and the cold stark days.
A desolate picture
hanging lost and forlorn
over a dark damp stain
on a heart that was torn.
 
She reaches out a trembling hand
searching for a mothers caress.
A loving lap to lay her head
and hide from all the distress.

A simple sweet, tender kiss
could have pulled her from the brink;
saved her from a tide of hate
before she’d started to sink.

A warmer world of peace,
a shelter from the storms,
the comfort and security
of a mothers gentle arms.

The lifeline of a mothers love
and a strong steadying hand
onto which she could cling
as she tried to understand.
 
But all she can hear
is the demon’s roar,
as he calls, enraged,
for his bridal whore.

She bow’s down low
at her masters feet,
offering herself
in dejected defeat.
 
 
Written by Darren Scanlon, March 2014
Revised by Darren Scanlon, 19th April 2015.
©2015 Darren Scanlon. All rights reserved

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