Crusted Core

Sometimes you would see one moving
Flitting down the street with sore feet
Her scarlet heels, her hurried patrol
As she surveyed the shadowed corners

Nobody knows what she could see in that shade.
A soul would often throw a pitied glance
And move on his way home.
She had swallowed her shame before dawn.

And now she sat watching the twilight
A mechanical fog in her mind
Her cheeks sunken and her eyes black
Beneath the silk of mascara

What had she to fear of the dark?
She sought out the fiends!
And now the cold beneath her shorts
Pulsed to her crusted core

Happiness seems a product of an exalted birth
And sorrow the comfort of the deprived mirth
Faith is never kind to the truly beautiful
And God observes from his throne, satisfied.