The Science Of Free Prostitution by Robert Wilson

She always claimed to want gold
Before tossing it to the trash
After acquisition
With bags of bones and hearts

Instead her hand is outreached
For rotted trees
Eager to carve trophies out of death
Put them on display
for all to see
Hoping to shape-shift
Into a status symbol

But a wish for vogue repute
Is just regression
The only way to evolve
Is to love


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