They rise from the dirt-
Harlequins in vivid attire.
With seductive displays
They entice the eye:
Some wear boas
Others wear lace
Still more cover up
Modestly.

Silent they stand-
Lithe and inviting.
Women of the night
Come out like vampires
Pale and beautiful
With passion and vibrancy
They do their job well.

Perhaps too well…

Some want to claim them
Gaze at their beauty
And so they take them home
Imprisoned in a sweaty hand,
A glass trap,
And finally,
A metal monster.
Others are suffocated
Between thin leaves
And hard wood.
They silently die
Beautifully
At the hands of children
And romantics.

But what is to happen
To these souls
If they are lucky?
They are not found.
As days pass by
They begin to fade,
Crinkle at the edges
As they swell with seed
Once they bow their head-
Brown and dying
The wind whisks
Their beauty away.