The act meant for love, now turned to disgust,
Devoid of feeling, no more than mere lust,
Severed from its roots, just a physical need,
Fulfilled but left empty, the heart cannot bleed.

No reason to pursue, all come the same,
The act desecrated, I am to blame,
Nothing but an actress, all is for show,
Inside is dead, no one will know.

The routine is perfected, disengaged from the heart,
No fear of failure, for tis doomed from the start,
But it is no simple matter hiding glazed over eyes,
Pleasure out of nothing, not an easy disguise.

The body may quiver, the glands start to sweat,
The juices may flow, perhaps the best yet,
But after it's over, and I'm all alone,
Tears stain my pillow, I am not made of stone.

In the body's haste, it cheated the mind,
Too soon to feel, the heart left behind,
The act is perverse, when removing the bond,
The body is stagnant, the mind goes beyond.

The mind makes the meaning, the heart feels the pain
They weep for the body, and the act made profane.