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