Don’t speak, whore, your words are redundancy,
Personified, you offend my life’s eye,
Turn your display from my sighted decrees,
Words of pleadings extend my needs-applied.

Lie mute, whore, no words of yours matter in
The hell of eternal awareness. Lie
Still, your squirming to be freed proffers sin
As your chosen position, planned awry.

Don’t cry, whore, as I ride your back deposed,
There is no repose in happiness, no
Better life than the one you live, supposed,
Supplied by the chaos of quid pro quo.

Don’t look to me, whore, your pain is your own,
Your voice is moot to realities flown.

Erin Elizabeth Kelly-Moen
© Copyright 4/25/06