Moans of the whore

She cried to herself of the withering, crisp leaves As she walked through a maze of freedom, the sun dripped warmth across her rain-crested skin. The souls of her cowhide moccasins wore thin as she passed along the scorching desert sands. A ceremony of triumph and long-standing division where the flannel carpet of withdrawal set upon her sleeping mind. Awakening to a feathered throne masked of chain and oracle bones, she envisioned a sky of sherry engulfing her dry body. Only one chance given, she made her amends to the shelter she had so eagerly set aflame, she made amends to the disapproval she gave of her rape, she made amends to the rays of magnanimous light that she so long ago strayed from. To this enlightenment she fell a short fall and was rid ofher polluted temple to cast scrutiny upon from afar. The remains slowly seeped into the darkness of the forbidden land where she once walked a long and painful journey. She strongly watched the decaying land to vividly spot a sprouting leaf of the most luminous flower to spread growth. She cried to herself of the radiant foundation she had left to die.