PROSTITUE OF LOVE
by Karine Ovsepian
My head between my heart and essence I am a spinster, nothing more than a quintessence, I am the prostitute of love, The buoyancy of consolation of pain thereof, I am my own design, Who never procreated, not even one.
I live in mans world, Where I exist and expire each day the way I am told, I crate my own mistakes, I sin and forgive with them no matter what it takes, Maybe that is why I am nothing but a spinster, Not a saint nor really magnificent.
I am the fine line between insolence and quality, Whipping my hallucinogenic impartiality, Who can to that refute? Oh but if only they could, All the wild animals mastering moral happiness, For once, I wish this prostitute of love could get a piece.
Today I am ordained by faith, Once again luck seems too late, Hypnotized by painted thoughts, My finite paintbrush with pleasure gloats, Though part of the canvas is about to be ripped, My sense as a prostitute in sea of love is still dipped.
I don’t know how to press the finishing touch, There is undone and unsaid still so much, I rather remain a prostitute of love, Thus, a spinster thereof.