Flower

She is a flower.
Thick mascara covers
Her perianth. Is it not strange
That she, like the stock exchange,
Has men shouting over her
(They condescend to unrefined overtures);
That she has been paid in most currencies
For services and occurrences
She would pay not to display.
But money is a habit she cannot restrain.

She is a flower
Her body is her power,
Her mind is her weakness
Her bane is her cheapness.
Her conscience is at a steep tilt
She knows one day she will wilt.
She puts on expensive petals
For she is paid in paper, not shiny metals
She can charm a lion pulling its whiskers
And can divert a pilgrim with demure whispers.

She is a flower
She makes the brave to cower.
She enters the inn and every head crumbles,
Enters the temple and even the priest stumbles.
She does it in a manner ineffable.
She is the incarnate of Jezebel.
Many have lost their virtue by her acquaintance,
More their wealth, for she is high maintenance.
She is a desert rose by the oasis of licentious men.
She is the litmus test for pretentious men.

She is a flower
Attracting insects, charging by the hour.
Stand outside the range of her manipulative eye
Or be webbed in the entanglement of her calculative mind.
She has copulated much but mothered none