Wednesday, January 18, 2012

Red Light District

The red lights blink
Bloody hues of seduction
The smudged windows glisten
Glass bars of deception
Bald men perspire and grin outside the glass
Young women grimace from within this prison.
Yet, swallowing their distaste
They pose in chains and lace
Hardened eyes no longer cry
Painted lips no longer speak
Lips retract; it is not a smile
A sneer is mustered to appease this hell
The outer hell has become the inner hell
Things have been sold that no one should sell.
Here they are caged
Encapsulated in glass
Coveted youth; now corrupted and used
Many were brought against their will
Their tiny forms now pressed against a window sill
The oldest profession...
Driven by perversion and male obsession.
And the sacrificial lambs
Are our little girls.

copywrite 1/17/2012

1 comment:

  1. This poem offers an interesting internal rhyme scheme that is deliberately (we must suppose) subtle. But what is much more to the point is that the poem is quite an indictment of the oldest profession's perpetrators--but not its victims. Bravo--advocacy must be humanity's answer in trying to level the playing field.

    ...Fly by Night