Desire by Evan Hoffman
Not desire,
Not you who drags at torn up cloths,
Not you who talks with infidelity.
Why pretend to be a rose,
Your thorns are finely honed,
Waiting to tear into fresh regimented flesh.
You come and wave at passersby,
But when they raise a hand,
You disappear in a cloud of sooty smoke,
You choke them in a firestorm of hate and ash and melting glass.
You try to help with overpowered lust,
Yet you only further hope that still remains,
Now locked up in a disbanded broken vault.
You have a craving for desiccating all of love and jives.
Though some still come to find you lurking in their dreams,
Some still want you to become that of stolen lies.
You play along with imprudent games,
You slash and tatter at human veins,
But one day we will realize,
You are that of thought,
Not that to be seized and sized.
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