Woman Up Against the Small Hours

Half solid half softened whence the moon sheds saturninity down to a boudoir maudlinly marooned. Half directly half deviously whether the night wind sneaks to snoop about the notes therefrom crooned. Half mauve half blue, with empty goblet impaled, whither diffuses the table lamp's dim light. Half sharp half shaded whether a woman's shapely profile touches up an unshapely night. White cigar's smoke curling up, red wine's spirits fizzing up, her own soul sinking into shackled sallowness breath by breath, hard to lift; Buckets of betrayal bolted down, jorums of jeremiad guzzled down, her own yearning wafting into the wild dark yonder wisp by wisp, hard to suppress. Woman in the small hours, hickeys on face faded, attachment in bosom fast; The face, jaded, nowhither to recall belying kiss passed. Woman in the small hours, redness on lips faded, fret of remnant fizziness fast; The lips, jaded, nowhither to retrace fine wine passed. . Beauty's bane, Hebe's drain, the least lasting are tender looks on the wane. Mood heedless moon hearkening how teardrops are stealthily strumming the crow's feet. Romance's fane, Penelope's pain; the most indelible, bulky bleakness down memory lane. Melatonin meagre melancholy massive how muliebrity, murk-muffled, is moaning in affinity to lone lamb's bleat!