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The Woman

There, under the stuttering street light,
She stands,
Tucking away those loose strands
Of her hair, filling the night
With thick acrid smell
Of her cheap perfume, her bright
Red lips painted well,
Slightly parted in a smile,
Mixed with the sound of her laughter.
She looks at you,
‘Tis Just a fleeting glance,
She smiles, inviting you,
And you walk across in a trance
But ‘tis now you notice her face,
Strained of happiness, though sought after;
Those red lips are blood red
And it was her cry instead
Of laughter
That you heard…

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