ENIGMA OF SEX

To some it's the manifest of love,
The act of provance,
The body of the abstract love.

To these it's sacred,
Something divine,
Saved for when time's right.

To some it's dreaded ritual,
Innocence surrendered,
The bringer of tainted life.

To these it's hated,
Forced on mind,
Driven by atavus breath.

To some it's the ultimate fun,
A sport played for joy's sake,
A game of passing time.

To these it means nothing,
Mere play, a pastime,
For body's satisfaction.

To some it's necessary,
The duty of production,
To create a self to raise.

To these it's manufacture,
Assembly required,
Batteries included after birth.

And yet this simple beneficial act
Lives on as great enigmas do,
Behind a fog of superstition.
It is our common factor,
All human flesh, all masse,
We all are driven for its fruits.