not Baudelaire's “Beauté”

I charm as any stone-sculpted dream:

men grind themselves to dust on my breasts

in solitude poets spill and spew

enraptured of my adamant clay.

 

my heart unknown an unblemished swan

a sphinx surveying from cloudless heights:

moving pieces I detest―composed,

I never smile, never learned to weep.

 

entranced with the splendor of my pose

my singing devotees take to prayer

laborious prayer in pious search:

 

these impale themselves fast to my heart

their eyes inflame and then they subside

the fire I impart singes then sears.