Passion’s Sister

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.