the dead prostitute

i stroll down the withering footprints,
where the remains of autumn lie,
the sands of time have done their toll,
the twilight resurrects with pessimism.

i walk past the withering grave,
lost in the vestige of times,
the soul which couldn't break,
the shackles of paranoia.

she has deceased in the remnants of time,
screwed by the love-stricken,
lost the soul instead for lust,
her existence had drooped away.

life had become a jeopardy,
when the flower didn't bloom,
the sun didn't shine,
the twilight took away the chastity,
in the times that have strolled away.

the bosoms lost for life's perils,
no one could juxtapose the body and soul,
the blood in her veins have ceased,
but memoirs remains in the sands.

getting scorched night after night,
to subdue existence's perils,
the winged life despoiled,
can't live anymore in
eternity's sunrise.

what life meant to be,
what had it become,
the wheel of life goes on,
but still actuated to liquidate
the body and soul.

the soul shrivelled in morsels,
left solitary in the yard,
the course of love didn't
run in her lane,
love is the fart of every heart,
which the mills of the gods,
never destined it for her.

her leaves trimmed to contours,
covered in winter with daisies,
the dead don't die,
death is nothing at all,
it doesn't count.

for in that sleep of death,
what dreams may come,
she lays solitary in the yard,
lost in the vestige of times.