the talk of souls

My soul is a stripper.
Dancing its way through hungry looks.
Through reaching hands.
Like a pope of the perverted.

My soul is a hooker.
Waiting in the city streets at night
With a sad majesty.
Like a ruined statue of ancestors.

My soul is a car.
Darting through blackened alleyways
Paved by poverty and sickness,
And he is the 5th rider.

My soul is a drug.
Expensive enough to drive women
into abandoning their lives.
Bringing only ruin.

My soul was the world.
But it is no more.