At dusk, they rise.

Here they are, getting ready for the night,

Deploying shapes and assets.

In a smog of perfume, they reveal

Displaying sparkling smiles,

Playing their beauty and charm,

For survival sake.

The ticking clock now feels like a spinning blade.

And I look around,

As the night flies,

Searching for sanity among the lies,

With the eyes of a child looking for her mum.

Observing and immersing my soul,

In a concerto of sweet and sour scents

A swirl of lace and flesh

Intoxicating those in quest of excitement and arousal

Whilst the lovely wives and children are peacefully sleeping at home.

Surrendering their soul and wealth

In the name of seduction and lust

Sexy, sweaty young bodies,

Wiggling around and spinning heads,

Wildly whipping faces with silky long hair,

Arousing again and again, out of despair.

The windmill is now running in full swing

And the ticking clock still feels like a spinning blade

Cutting me off from my dreams,

Until the night fades away.


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