Scented lives that drift along:
from birth a sugared, rosy path;
pandered to and money spent,
with no thought of an aftermath.
Who lurks in the dim lit street?
Perhaps each shadow hides a form.
A crime of fearful retribution mete.
A mask of hate, trained to deform.
I hear the soft cadence of your voice,
gladly saying that you are mine.
Your beauty is with me in my dreams;
smiling as you seek my hand.