Turon

Wrapped and encrusted,
Infested with festering sweetness,
Brittle when intimate
With the salivating tongue.
For a few, she can be yours
Pandered by scantily-clad damsels,
Through feather-sad eyes, they
Try a smile to win some.
In my hands rough enfolded
Brown but often red,
To my lips she creeps
Crumbling broken on paper.
Moments and shreds entombed
In the dark that is fed.