Passion

Passion is not birthed,
It is born.
It is a raging monster,
That demands attention.
With it’s ardor and lustrous vigor,
It embraces yearning.
Heeding to that yearning,
Leaves you trembling affectionately with trepidation.
Wonderfully maniacal.
Alive, including all the elaborate details of life.
Clear chaos,
A delirious hunger,
That gorges completely,
Until not a fragment is left standing.
Not a cunning thief, nor a devoted preacher,
Not a man, not a being.
But a creature.
A creature that floats blissfully through the mist.
An indignant creature with resolve,
That few men let their faith succumb to.
Courageous men that stand up to societies confined reality.
Follow a narrow, winding path.
Sporadic rights and lefts,
Never straight, yet ever so meager with liberty.
Blinking through the escorting mist,
Where consequences are extinct.
It feeds off earnest, not confessions.
No ears, mouth or nose.
Only a heart.
A heart that fills a void,
Of a face, of a body.
A heart that only heeds to the fiery present.
The lustful minutes,
Sows with anguish into long years.
An illustrious beauty,
With eyes that becomes moons,
Fingertips seperated by oceans.
The persistent flower wilts in mourning,
Yet, passion is immortal.
It thrives within,
It leads the wisest of men,
Into a delirious night.
Radiated only with dancing flames,
Burning from the lone heart,
Invigorating the senses,
Until the fire falters and vanishes,
And the hopeless ashes drift into the white sun.