Dead. Asleep in the Lily of the Valley
Obscene and cold, flat on her back
All for a damn hit of ten dollar crack.
Beneath the grime and blood and gore
The innocence, before she was a whore
Could not be seen, she met her maker
A one hundred percent street-wise faker.
Dead blue eyes, peroxide hair, a wild vine
Earrings in her nose, tongue, a defiant sign
To the world that she's a wild child
Who long ago learned how not to smile.
The one thing which stood out about her
Where everything thing else was a blur
A silver cross lay obscenely under her throat.
It looked out of place, as would a sable coat.
A silver cross, from her unknown past?
A present from someone she held onto fast?
A detective, hardened to scenes such as this
He shuddered, covered her with a low hiss.
Blue strobe lights lit up the night near the dump
The police milled around the unmoving lump
Trying to maintain, it was an awful test
The sheet over her body outlined her breast.
Each man, woman, working the dreadful scene
Spoke tersely about the fallen sex queen
Many times they had been called out in the night
To look at and ponder such similar sights.
How much can one take before giving in
To horror and begin living for a bottle of gin?
The one lying so still, sculptured by a fiends
Wicked hand carving out her end, not clean.
More honest in death than living the life she did
She was much more than a whore on the skids
My, God, a detective screamed at the slaughter
Oh please, don't let this happen to my daughter.
©August 4, 2003 / Jerry Pat Bolton
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