Once, it drank the candle’s glow, a scarlet smirk in lamplight’s throe.
Now its ribs of mahogany groan, a carcass clad in threadbare moan.
The moths, like thieves, have pickled its seams. Their silver wings
stir dust-borne dreams. What courtesan, what midnight queen
draped her thighs where stains convene? The mirror’s throat,
a splintered hymn, sings back the rot, its face grown grim.
Lavender curdles, sweet and sour, a perfume turned to funeral flour.
Hush, the velvet parts its lips, a whispered tale of fingertips
that slithered, fevered, down its nap. Now fossilized in time’s cold trap.
It dreams of weight, of heat, of sin, of sweat that soaked its royal skin.
But decades yawn; the fabric weeps, And all it keeps…is what it keeps.
Rated for Teens(13+) 
…is what it keeps
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