A Curse of Old Beauty

Sliding through with graceful facile,
spare fingers through locks to covet.
Atop a terrible beauty they glide
and indulge in the luxury.
Akin to the whalebones in her bodice
they are annealed and whittled,
as the torque that decorates
her ivory clavicle, in sacrifice
to complement her loveliness.

(Her silhouette is soft perfection,
her waist perfect for two hands
to grip. And slide down,
and down).

With willed nonchalance,
nimble fingers fall mum
to the nil cockled petticoat
gathered hardly
'tween limbs of radiant pale.
She knows what lay
entwined like thorns come nadir.
In snarls and masses now,
they hiss at teeth of the comb.

(Heat pulses through her,
the steady, wet beat
of a palpitating heart.

It sears beneath her gown
to burn
at the apex of her luscious thighs).

Arrear to her allure,
thus such great beauty
at no time holds whole truth.
At high, she is guised splendid;
Lo below her feet carry
hose upon stocking evermore.

(Pointed toes strain and flex,
muscles clench.
Curved calves, smooth
and firm, wrap
around her lover).

A curse upon flesh
she knowingly accepts.
The happenings of striking elegance;
terrible a scar.
Fallen from simple-ness,
under the hex of vain affections,
a zealous martyr to pulchritude.

(Between the sheets
of her bed and gown,
her screams are divine.
She sings her own song).