Non-poetic thought of quarter-past-one

Shame is a good thing.
The last shimmer of truth.
Her rosy cheeks,
my failed words,
a smile runs away
to a lost paradise
where all is cynical and everything happens,
where every wish expresses
future realities.

Were we ashamed more often,
we'd make less fools of ourselves.
The taste of a kiss
would have the emotional features of a battle.

A war is won,
when its last survivor forgets.