Is This Desire ?

This body squirms
Muscles contract
Yet they do not dwell on the movements.

the flesh slowely stretches
the cranium adapts to sudden stimulus
Emerging from it's cocooned coma

The archways of this sphere contract and release
the thoughts of pleasure and pain.
Remorse.
Forgiveness that is not given
But what is life, if not for the taking

Quite.
Lonely.
Weary of another battle not worth waging.
Avoidance of violence, purely pacifist
Though what is blood for, if not for the shedding ?

Cut serenely, painless and swift.
Not as deeply as the written words
escaping from a world so corrupted by chaos
But what are confessions for, if not for overcoming ?

Confiding in a self proclaimed messiah is never wise
when the archways of alliance contract, then realign
As the shackles of silence release and unwind
Though what is confidence for, if not for the breaking ?

In my glass coffin, I am waiting
For the icicles on the eyelash to thaw
So the hate can melt away purely
Because what is passion for, if not for the accepting ?

To emerge from the ashes of deception
To be engulfed in the sumptuous sin
To embrace the flames of passive pleasure
I ask you, is this desire ?