Poems by

The Whore

a poem by Rathish

She moves through the fair,
unheeded unsung,
her jet black eyes spreading
a cold gaze around
in search of her man
no one else sees her
no one else can.

Swaying to the winds her
chiseled out silhouette moves on,
dressed as ever for the game
she’s been at since man was born.

Unfathomable beauty,
right out of a gypsy folklore,
such great finesse,
only too eerie for a centuries old whore.

It’s a whore she is
and the poor mortal must fall prey,
no matter how righteous
in this femme` he has no say.

‘coz she’s a law of nature
a truth so profound
for some she’s the best the fair has to offer
still others opine it’s the other way round.

Neither escape her though
for fate is nothing save the toss of a coin
and yet all must run out of flips
when she comes to you, you must sleep with her
and taste the sweet poison off her lips.