Here the light’s a different shade;
veiled, a whore’s red scarf
grown dusty on a lampshade
paints the walls with sex
to dim the glare.
An aqua boa slinks coiled
around the bedpost,
feathers frayed at edges
once sharp and clear,
now soft as milk.
A golden chime rings out;
hands have hit the spot
where time stands still
and still wraps silken
around the sleeper.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology