Passion is a violent thing Possessive, red, hot, Always on the offensive. Passion devours Passion deflowers Passion is the fruit That is plucked from the tree Passion is always me And rarely you. Yes, passion is destruction Of self in pursuit Hunting down that Object of desire: Passion walks the high wire Strung from Love to Hate An act, a trick, a stitch too late To save me And rarely you. In her red cape Passion sits Backwards upon a chair Straddling shame Stoking fires Making the honest liars And stroking Samson's long dark hair. Her sister enters, eyes of green Slits his throat Sun beams in As she crowns herself Queen. And the nightingales scream.