2 A.M.

At 2 A.M. she does her dance,
Her eyes of sorrow hidden by euphoric trance.
She does her best to entertain the crowd;
Wide eyes they glare, and the shouts are loud;
Her fluid movements cause money to rain,
For the dirty bills are her source of gain.
It’s behind the eyes, oh those weary eyes,
Where her soul seeks warmth, and her spirit cries.
Her passion is singing; her passion is life;
Still she walks in heels on a winter’s night,
To make a living the only way she has known,
For the long dark road has become her home.
She is mentally afflicted, because she is a victim
Of abuse in her childhood, when pain was inflicted.
Her tears are the tears of an angel …
She longs for understanding; she longs for light;
For a heavenly shelter from the cold of night.
As she strips her clothes, pain strips her soul;
Only the familiar eyes of her sorrow would know.
She is an angel. A beautiful woman.
At 2 A.M. she is still a woman.

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