On the Bed of Pleasure

Under the heavy blanket of darkness he hides,
Indulging in his filthy delight,
Sweating under the efforts and tries,
To harness those tiny droplets of joy,

In the moment of pleasure he fails to see,
That the blanket he holds is a huge sea,
Whose waves hide countless such corpses,
That writhe about like his own does,

Pathetic, he falls, dripping wet,
Stinking with the stench of sweat,
Holding onto breath and heartbeat,
Unable to hold the high that came and went,

A fleeting glee it proved to be,
Evaporating before one could see,
Oh so short, did it even exist?
How so smooth could be its exit?

But like the waves that lick shores for a moment,
It dances ahead with such noise and might,
And yet when it comes, it's hardly felt,
Forgotten before it even left,

It only trace is seen on his face,
That bears a smile after the race,
But is it of joy or is it of relief,
Like the end of a run, a quiet release?

And before he dwells on the slipping delight,
He pulls closer his vain blanket,
Why among the many faces of his,
Must he so desperate, hide this?

He cringes within, shivering in guilt,
Slipping away into the crowded surround,
Wearing upon him an innocent countenance,
He hopes to hide that night's every trace,

And yet, like the strange, unique face of man's,
No matter how much it frowns or wringes,
It shall return to its form's core,
Like nothing at all had happened before.