She tells a tale of Boulevard skulduggery,
Upon the corner’s shadowed stage,
I chanced upon a figure, bold and free,
Who eyeballed my intent with a gaze.
“What seek you in this nocturnal air?”
She inquired, voice edged with scorn.
“To glimpse the aurora’s radiant flare,”
I replied, with dreams newly born.
Yet my words seemed to provoke her ire,
“All men,” she spat, “are but lust’s slaves!”
Recalling moments of her own fire,
She recounted gripping a man’s very knaves.
I pondered on her tale’s dark reverie,
“Is such your path to liberation true?”
Her retort sliced through the night’s decree,
Yet my reply was serene, no rue.
“No transaction here, no coin nor fee,
My speech a gentle stream, not a breeze.
I offer a gesture, a symbol of plea,
For love’s elusive essence, a tease.”
In the dance of shadows, where truths reside,
Our exchange echoed in the silent night.
For love, a question, forever implied,
In Boulevard’s skulduggery’s mystic light.
V.Prator is originally from Hempstead; now living in Atlanta, Georgia