Passion is the torch dropped
in some familiar spot.
The one that incinerates
the things you hate,
while trying to light
other fires of desire
just to motivate
you to create
something great;

But when that fury
simmers to
a soft boiled
version of you
then on to
the cold corpses
set for a passing few
to finally view,

when you
no longer
burn inside
of that steaming cauldron
of creatives juices,
and all of the energy
that this mortal frame uses
flickers out
like a little candle in the wind,

when windbags spew
passing platitudes
and clichés
like the lazy
writing
I am showing you,

who will ever remember
the flames that fell to embers
and floating ash in December
as a cold January
takes all this fantastic fury
and turns it to dull grey nothingness?