There once was a whore

he was not an ordinary, nothing they would tell in lore.

 

The whore wasn’t your plastic kind;

and yet, solace he could never find.

 

He wandered from street to street,

looking for that reason to get his heart to beat.

 

He looked in European joints and he looked in the trash

and he looked until it made him want to crash.

 

Years of it, looking at the rouge and red,

and he couldn’t find it until he sank in an ill, drunken bed.

 

And when he then took the pen

it dawned on him, in a moment making him zen.

 

He wanted to find love – a particular sort

one he could fall back on, making it all abort.

 

But alas! He could not seek what he had always sought from the core

And yet, he had lived the coveted life – that of a whore.