Mounted on a flimsy cart

She ride

Clenching her fist, cascade of lies dripping down her cheeks

She cried

Fruit of dishonor created by lust 

Impulse, She feel her sin stretching from the insides

"Memento mori!” She squealed up high

They pierced into the pit of despair

Clawed the filth, molded a gun and pointed at her

The void reached the hole, splatter of grief against the wall

A gorgeous memoir

Poor innocent whore