Senesce.

She drew those sheets up the neck,
strained, those cinnamon toes, thus reveal'd,
For solace which appears from her knees,
has power to cajole, unfailingly mislead.

Then again, and this just may tempt,
began her daily orchestrated vent;
today's menu, an overdose in lament,
a tinge of salt with a hint of dissent.

Sunshine!
The tint plays bridge within my squint,
in times as these, one can't abandon, unsin'd;
as intimacy would cleave, let alone our schisms,
these foregone rhymes crowded with euphemisms.