Slippery slopes of passionance

A crux he holds above his head
totters over north and south,
commanded by her golden love;
Driven toward primal need.
Equilibrium is the endgame,
by which one wins in continence;
But lawed in temperature —
A logless fire insinuates doubt
that thermostats undo perfection;
Cold blood destines to perish.
Before climate bears its head
and lament is encompassed,
he dives inside the empty bowl.


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