A Riddle

This sickness thirsts, but hates desire,

Chills when it burns, but is not fire;

Sweet-tasting to the fair and just,

But once it catches, sour as dust;

Pretends to free the human race,

Makes monsters of the human face;

Corrupts the meaning of the mother,

Turns he and she against each other;

Twists truth into an ancient lie,

But has no shame to testify;

Servile, despising those who serve,

Seeking what it would not deserve;

Cyst upon the human heart,

Canker of science and of art;

Gives love a new excuse to hate,

Envies the power to create,

And yet can only imitate.

What is it?

                                  Frederick Turner

From Hadean Eclogues, Story Line Press,

© 1999.  Reprinted by permission of the author.