Poetry – Streets of Wickedness…#220

Harlot Clothing

Harlots cry into the night, wandering through the streets, offering themselves.   They are hungry and their stomach rumbles with the deafening sounds of the city, some cry and wail, needing to eat. 

They peddle their wares and another owns their soul.  The misery they endure leaves their hearts cold. 

On this night many of the harlots feel they are cursed, others that did not survive will take their last ride, in the undertaker’s hearse.

©2020.elizabethannjohnsonmurphree

5 thoughts on “Poetry – Streets of Wickedness…#220

  1. London
    BY WILLIAM BLAKE
    I wander thro’ each charter’d street,
    Near where the charter’d Thames does flow.
    And mark in every face I meet
    Marks of weakness, marks of woe.

    In every cry of every Man,
    In every Infants cry of fear,
    In every voice: in every ban,
    The mind-forg’d manacles I hear

    How the Chimney-sweepers cry
    Every blackning Church appalls,
    And the hapless Soldiers sigh
    Runs in blood down Palace walls

    But most thro’ midnight streets I hear
    How the youthful Harlots curse
    Blasts the new-born Infants tear
    And blights with plagues the Marriage hearse

    Liked by 1 person

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