An Ode to an Old Whore

mournful silence in a brothel
dying moments of a sick old whore.
no pity, no compassion, no one to
weep.
obsolete her existence
name anonymous and lost.
unholy, disgusting her work they say...
but consumed, abused and created by them.
never she felt warm embrace
icy gropings is all she got,
raped, tortured, strangled hundreds of times,
still she is the whore ?
who sold her virtue and soul.
if only society could see through their pleasure and prejudice,
she wouldn't be called immoral,
a pestilence...
once a scarlet queen,
she was a delicate flower crushed,
snatched and sold
tortured and forced to become puppet of sex.
virginity lost, purity corroded.
men gazed with vulguar appetites,
bitches and sluts with disgust.
incrimating society, self-righteous
system.
obscene lustful faces, chanting songs of prudence and
divinity.
wolves in disguise of sheep,
feeding on innocence.
her stories unheard but suppressed,
her pain unfelt but molested.
all eyes on her body,
all tempted to quench their thirst.
but no more she will entertain nobles
as she escapes this walls of loathsome pleasure...
she grins, putting away her wrinkles aside,
death too weak to arouse dread in her eyes,
as she's conquered hell many times.
and she knows peace and freedom
awaits her...
angels and cherubim smile above,
heaven welcomes, daughter of
'babylon the great'