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