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.