La Petite Mort

Walking in fog, shrouded in the night,
    he shivers in the cold.
captured in a pool of light,
    he's a slave, bought and sold.
his mistress in the dark abides,
    drinking from his soul.
and in his shriveled heart resides,
    not one solitary goal.
squealing a car does stop,
    a new master for the hour.
and before seeking a new crop,
    a cleansing hot quick shower.
then the fog hides his sin,
    his shame an hour gone.
for he’s not the owner of his skin,
    but an ornament until dawn.
then his mistress will come for him,
    a spider in her web.
to tease him with kiss and whim,
    and cause his flow to ebb.
until one day he wins free,
    to the dark streets of stone.
and then at last he will be
    forever in bed alone.