As Sorrow Painted Her Cheeks

I looked towards the best of graces,
Feeble and fevered with the best of faces
Upon idle curves and forms inescapable.
She was known as the best harlot,
In a palace filled with indescribable
Lust and hurled pleasures.
 
And, upon the plates
There were eyes stuck to faces pointed
At all contents for cleansing of hunger,
She promised to cleanse their hunger,
She promised to elate their arousal,
To ever-higher states.
 
She had placed me at a corner for my mind to simmer,
At the thought of one burning touch,
Upon the core of my heart,
And stay there,
Simply stay there,
To be awakened by her sobbing.
 
I was in the best of places,
The eagerest of solaces,
Her face whimpered upon the gaze of my finger,
As it swiped each shed droplet, of each smeared tear,
Blackness and gladness, held hands, together,
Upon this evening of hazy summers.
 
Plates were decorated with her sadness,
Plates were adorned with her tears,
And longing was the gift of all men,
Blessed to be,
Offered to be,
The stuck stare upon a mother’s oath.