What a prostitute you have become, surely that wasn’t a question of some assertion; it’s a fact. That’s what you’ve become, with shared allegiance and wavering flickering choices yet it’s not your fault, as always blame the universe if you have to but for once be bold or at least pretend to or yet be prave not brave. You don’t have it in you, everyone’s looked and given up on you, what a whore you are and you’ve become like the ones before you. You claim it’s mysterious yet it’s not, time is but what do you think you are or have you forgotten you’re its sibling? Quick reminder then, no one has ever loved you, all pretend to and that’s because of your trickery. You pick on anyone who strays, the weak and the strong, how foolish of humanity to allow your existence but you’ve been there for a while not our making and never there without us. Kings and fools alike have fallen to your snares, the best minds call you a thief, how chiefly economic they were with the truth but surely you have been known to be identified and at least we now warn our young ones to be cautious of you, you thief if time. Anyone who wonders have fallen prey to your skills. Called you a whore now everyone thinks you’re deserving of a gender, we’ve given you a name you know and it’s contained in one word too much for you, procrastination – you never know.