What Love Can Not Purchase

From the edges of the scene, I creep and I creep;
Like the sideshow sneaking up on the freak. A
Home, the unknown, the miscreant and unclean.
The heart's miasma and stage lit drama stealing
The show from the performer in the ring.
She's a saint and a queen, a dancer and is seen.
My heart and my hands tied in ribbons and her
Dance. Like the songs that pour from the speakers
Whispering out to me, Be something,
Be unclean. Well my hands dart as they part,
And I shift as I sift through a pocket of change
For something to throw; some sublime offering. A Rose,
Or a Rose is all I can dream, with pockets jingling
And empty. She's a queen and a dream, painted
All pretty and delicately conquering the room
With her dips and her swoons. Shadowed eyes slide
Close as she takes her bows and collects cheap
Bills from the stage. Not a rose in repose waiting
At her feet, only the oblation of the profane and obscene.