Inherent Temperament

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...