Quelling Concupiscence

Maecenas, old crony, tutelary saint–

as a cohort, your calcified circumspection
begs the question:
a compatriot would certainly reveal
with outright honesty,
probable probity,
should on occasion I
all too eagerly endeavor
towards tendencies too intrusive,
too obtrusive, too obtuse,
too invasive, too pervasive,
too perverse–
any intimation inadvisedly,
foolishly discharged–
baser instincts my strict composure shamefully belied?

Many a remedy,
agrarian and aesculapian alike,
have been employed in a vain attempt
at quelling concupiscence
and consciously condemning a crush–
efforts not unnoticed, undoubtedly.

When schadenfreude remains masked
in an obloquy deemed unselfish concern,
kindness lacks compassion and
acronical courtships lack a familiar ring.

Habit drowns sorrows in sweetmeats and sauce,
but they don’t sell bottled courage in this county.

Can one really blame a jaded jade who,
from virgin to vamp to virago,
always mistook anger for ardor
and warning for wit?

For the bawd and the bard
dawn arrives in painful waves;

parturition gives impetus
to diurnal course–
Wordsworth would be unwholesomely well-pleased.

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