He leaves his money on the table
And his clothes upon a chair
She is waiting for him
This one has dark auburn hair
She performs her act of service
He replies with lust and need
Hating, loving, hating
Yet returning to this deed
With eyes closed he remembers
When the bed was warm at home
When she smiled and bid him welcome
In her tender, loving arms
Before her icy shoulder
Turned to him and faced the wall
While he weeps in silent torment
At the misery of it all
The girl picks up her money
He hears the closing of the door
His angel of small mercy
To others, just a whore
He pleads to God for mercy
For the victim he’s become
He never thought the door would close
To love, in his own home
All Rights Reserved
Janet Martin
If anyone of you is without sin
let him be the first to throw a stone at her. John 8:7
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