The vermillion blush on my face
dies every day to be resurrected
Beneath the pious palm of yours.
It seeks your miraculous caress.
It reeks of the cold persistent past.
But your warms hands kneading
The stale n' inconsequential cheeks
Of mine and the graces they pour;
They burn them up into vapour
Temporarily but I don't complain.
Do as you may please.
But as innocent, please don't play.
For you're not ignorant.
For You're omniscient.
Will always remain.