She lost perspective before she met the glass,
Braces on lips like wine, a fleeting stain.
Golden hair pulled too tight, youth locked in place,
Slipped like coins into the senex’ fragile purse.
Concealed in lockets, veiled from prying eyes,
Alluring hunters sought her tortured grace.
Through dusty rafters, golden strands would rise,
Brushing his scars beneath the public’s gaze.
No one regarded the banker’s loss or coin;
Old men still scattered mints upon the floor.
Some whispered fate had favored her to join,
Others claimed the devil had opened the door.
The wise, unmoved, declared with measured breath:
All that has come is better—even death.
time’s easier to bear if it was never meant to last
starving’s the only way to be a seeker
of affection that’s just a hoax