It cannot ever be explained why lust
(true lust I mean — not some ungodly thing)
should hold the hand of love but yet not trust
that everness would be a joy to sing.
One cannot promise continuity
of lust, for death will haunt and bring decay;
and this creates such ambiguity
for love itself can never waste away.
So how can lust and love be reconciled
if lust is buried in the body’s grave
while depth of love can never be defiled?
The answer is that lust is love’s own slave.
True lust is love’s sweet icing on the cake.
Erect and hard, more love with it we make.
© 2012, Alan Morrison