Death of a Prostitute

I was rushing into the headwinds, eager to escape the swirls of snow,

when I spotted a dark sort of doe lying in the depths of a slushy gutter.

Her matted hair, her smeared eyes, her wisps of black and red clothes

rendered her a broken muse fallen from a rich man's silk-covered bed.

In life, her face was gold and gray, faded from misery but still a glimmer

with the hopes of a girl who can only imagine an existence full and gay.

She wasn't going to be someone's powdered, crimson lipped doll forever.

She wasn't going to be a puppet programmed to titter and moan forever.

She wanted to fly, to flee eternally, but that's exactly why she had to die.

That's exactly why he had to kill her, just beneath the ice and crystal sky.

Freedom is a dream forbidden to the slave, be there sunshine or snow.