A La Mode

[I keep coming back to this poem because it picks up a pretty groovy rhythm towards the end, and also because I can't resist a good pun. I recall that I had love in mind when I wrote it, but I suspect that it makes almost no sense.]

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we do surely trust desire,
forced to walk this cold old road
forgetting how the heart will tire
of gravel offered a la mode
that French fashion found its place
in cavities and old boutiques,
leaving hearts without a trace
of sympathy for flushed pink cheeks
sticky with vanilla cream,
brain freeze eyes that flow with tears,
red meat soles that ooze and gleam
raw from pebbles, hopes and fears,
mercy cannot live for those
that French fashion comes and goes