Don't be so tortured, passion.
Don't be so metal rimmed in servitude
to all that's over the top and brimming with enigma's breath
Don't be the pump of blood adrenaline
on all the days one might have called
the moon out on her day of death.
Don't be so riddled, passion.
Don't be so all elusively inclined
to all that want a taste of you with grasping hands
Don't be the hide to seek tonight
in all this dark when even stars
grow quaint in the ignite of their demands.
Don't be so waning, passion.
Don't whisk the room in tenderness
past all the sense of first encounter's countenance
Don't rinse the obligated sigh
in love's delight and broken breath
when all we want is permanence.
Don't be so quiet, passion.
Don't leave us here with metal lips
to kiss desire in last good bye's and marriage vows
Don't rinse your hands of us tonight
as we live on adrenaline
and bated tongues immerse you even now...
Copyright © Tatyana Carney