Prostitute

There has to be more than this
 Is there no reason for me to exist
 But for as a plaything of miscreants, malingerers, dastards and knaves?
 How is it so
 A child can be bought for a year's worth of grain?
 In this day and age
 It's hard to explain but it happens again and again
 I'll never forget the scene
 Where the freckled jowls contort across my father's face and disappear under the wheels of the cart
 Then the sky parts
 Pillar of rain
 It is my mother
 In another life
 If I ever had children of my own
 I'd cleave them to my breast
 And convey them far from this country of demons made flesh
 My last bedfellow is choked to the death on a dummy of puke
 I stole this horse, Old Speckled Brownface
 From the royal tannery
 Haunches glossy with sweat
 We burst through the birch
 Turn our heads north
 With dawn in our lungs we reach the border