The Yellows of the Dark.

The harem tale is not as bittersweet
as the whore itself, deftly weaving
that fantasy world in dirty, black

silk sheets, covering herself in the darkness.
How fragile it is, the hymen life she leads!
How small indeed it was and is and will be.

The lipstick is too bright a red, it's not
the enhancement of her own lips,
it’s the projection of wax, cold and lifelike.

"Are you a widow?" the wind howls
as it bares her pale skin under the yellow
yellow sulphur lights.

"A mother of an unborn son?" callous voices
seep though the anxious singing. I can see her
clutching at the seams of her

satin dress. Frictionless in the cold and the rain.
Fictionless as a spelling mistake.
What would she make of my life and it's

pathetic voyeurism dressed as an
intelligent yet morbid curiosity?
Of the pale walls of no particular shade.

Of the blue eyes and yellow teeth and the
peculiar bruises on breasts of shades
of a vile and foul nature?

I am no superior and neither is she.
We are one against the wind,
separated by an unyielding glass shield.