Passion #1 ©

I will not speak of moon,
as so oft time is done.

Nor lover's touch, nor kiss,
that race so dearly run.

Instead it is of fear,
the step she takes away.

When lover comes in close,
on summer's waning day.

The height of passion's breath,
a searing ember flame.

Upon the flesh of woman,
Her own heart to the blame.

And yet they walk away,
from 'neath the boughs of oaks

Worshiping that fear,
which love so gently cloaks.

For it is known by they,
that beast will never waken

To end this timeless need,
the dance of take and taken.