Crimson

-To my mother, a hopeless romantic, who gave birth to another one

Swallowing the last drops of crimson liquid
At the bottom of the bittersweet cup,
Dabs off the drips on her crimson lips,
Above the satin blouse buttoned shut.
Unruly curls, tousle around the shoulders,
Like serpents writhing behind her ears,
Whispering savory pretext, chasing away prudence
While slithering upon the crimson cheeks
Stained with painted innocence.
Like a blooming orchid, willfully blind,
Blatantly leafless, only stained pastels
Burgeoning so much poise, and crimson joy
but half hidden from the eyes,
of every beholder, under the sky.
Whilst half of the world passes by,
Without a trace of relenting thought,
“Twilight is not good for maidens”
Void of praise, prayer, nor admiring sighs,
Her crimson heart is not therefore
Less divine.