Delirium

The whores by the doors
of the dark steamy wharves
embrace young sailors
washed up on their shores
who came searching for love
but harbour bad news 
of being infected
with sores that ooze
down
into dry gritty sand
where desperate women
in loose stockings stand
with hot smeared red lips
and swollen insides
they feverishly dream
of becoming rushed brides
to the lost men they clutch
who can now barely crawl
whose last breath they catch
before they all
fall. 

Eva Collins