This thing, desire, makes me sad—
Like love, which is afraid, and a fraud, and fails,
Failing to do what it takes to be glad.
Desire is imaginative and believes the tales
Of desire’s success, that friend
Who ruins what my real friends patiently mend.
I believe those stories of infidelity and madness,
But they are false, exactly as desire is false. Love’s madness fails.
Despondency came; love and desire sought gladness,
But despondency and melancholy rule
Those too cautious, who went to school
Or church, and in the work of words found sadness.
If desire and love make us sad, what of fear that grieves?
The body dies: this I know; this knowing has taken its toll;
What I want most desperately is the survival of my soul;
Sad desire plots and plans. Only fear believes.
