In the brazen-induced hours
of a Wednesday night,
she was decadence in yellow –
falling too early to
ashes and smoke rising.
Dancing among the
sidewalk cracks, cigarettes,
broken hearts and debris –
mending the desirable
with promises of rays
galore; valiant in her efforts
of debauchery and possibilities.
She was fair and sparkling in sin,
creating charcoal as she danced;
silent brush strokes echoing
into the sobering night.
Her depravity was evaporating –
burning innocence and melting
cinders of truth in profanities
of saint-like resorts.
It was four hours past midnight;
the streets were empty
with light posts barely
creating shadows dancing
with the wind or singing
melancholy desire.
She was decadent at her best –
yellowed and glowing.
Still loved – still loved
and wholeheartedly.