There was once a Victorian.
Simple. Plain. Unassuming.
Inside its space was vast.
Housing thirteen doors.
Some of which were never used.
And some of which went no where.

In a quiet spring,
it was surmised.
and in a whimpering fall
it was occupied.

Housing three harlots
this Victorian stood.
It wept for lost potential.
It held its breath when business
seemed to run smooth.
But the Victorian always knew
that the business had long since
gone bankrupt.

The harlots cheated their books.
Hoping to fool their accountants.
But the Victorian was always aware
that the men were growing thin.
And that the boots of other madams
no longer passed the threshold.

Attempting to drum up business,
the Victorian hosted visitors,
but two of them declined to pay
the harlots for services rendered.
And another visitor, a part of a couple,
thought it might be nice
to own the harlots personally.

But you see, these harlots
can never be owned
by anyone.

And so they went
from hard to soft
from open to shut
from hot to frigid.

People attempted to read
between the lines
of the ledgers kept
by the harlots;
and most failed to see
the truth in the numbers.
Of course, it was clear to the Victorian
that the harlots did not keep accurate books.

Eventually, no men came
and not a single madam called for tea.
The harlots were forced to tell all.
There was no more business to run.
In a cool-winded spring
the harlots abandoned the Victorian
to try their trade elsewhere.

The Victorian again stands unassuming,
knowing that it did indeed fulfill its destiny,
even if that destiny was not the one
the harlots expected.