By Othelia
I awake in the bed of a seedy room,
the air is filled with cheap perfume.
the floor is littered with harlot's clothes,
and the air is filled with memories woes.
I try to imagine this pitiful girl,
Who sleeps in this room amidst trinkets and pearls;
Who makes her living,lying on a bed
when inside the shell,her soul is dead.
I wonder how,to such a level she fell,
Into this desperate,degrading hell.
A door opens,could it be,
The girl who lives in such misery?
Into the room walks a pretty,young whore,
Though her eyes are blackened and her blouse is a-tore;
Her cheeks are tear-stained though rosy and mild,
And in her arms she hugs a child.
A fragile baby,weeks old at most,
Sleepy and tearful and white as a ghost. She stares at me with a face of
shame
And I look back with a face of the same.
With no words said I could stand it no more,
I collected my things and ran through the door.
As I walked from her lodgings , i hoped she would see,
That she was far stronger than I could ever be.