I cover and pad the hidden reaches beneath the human trees. The base and roots are covered in my cotton sheathes.

It is what utensils say when they swear.

In chambers dark where secrets lie, dost beat the drum of mortal sigh. 'Tis passion's source, of fire and woe, the silent bard of Cupid's bow.

Some people use money or a credit card for me, yet others use windows. The latter is by far the cheapest. What am I?

I might lead to art, I could be a result from a game or the act of choosing a card.