She lives this life every day,
On her way or way back,
Those gloomy, blood-red eyes follow her,
In her every move, every forwarding step.
They hide at the darkened alleys,
Light cigarettes and chats with uncouthness.
The keep their eyes on her,
On her clothes and far beneath.
They stare with jagged, penetrating gapes,
Chat about filthy impulses.
She wants to scream and slap the darkness,
She wants to avoid the gazes or disappear.
She wants a way out from the cul-de-sac.
But fails to muster up the courage she has inside.
The blood-red eyes come closer,
The filth in them touches her shoulder viciously,
And then her fragile hands and rosy cheeks,
Her slender waist and guiltless soul.
They harm her chastity, her invaluable riches.
She lays alone on the spotless, dirt-less street,
People points out the blood-stream,
Torn clothes and bare body and
A victim primitive hunger.
Written for Poets United Mid-week Motif