The dying embers of passion stir within me,

My aged beauty longs to charm again.

It yearns for the timelessness to be,

as it searches for a reality long undone.


The blood in my marrow boils with my need,

To be held and loved and fawned over.

I cry over my crinkled reflection; I bleed,

for one more moment of my long ended reign.


The memoirs of touch linger still on my skin,

like love poetry written on old parchment.

The smell of cheap smoke and nightly sin;

My sagging breasts mock the lady in the mirror.


My palace of ill repute is a macabre untruth,

without the patrons with their sly smiles.

But I know the fickle faithfulness of youth,

Alas, it seeks not to please but destroy.


I lie alone with tales of depravity and pleasure,

Lamenting a destiny I wrote with my pain.

Maybe someone will come searching at leisure,

The lost treasure of an old harlot’s heart.

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