Passion,

Woe that you should be my muse,
To have me painted and scarred so many hues

And oh to carry this poets heart,
Flooded by tides of feeling, floating world apart

In a flowing void of deepness,
The Self cast inward far,

Awesome gravity from all directions,

A black hole, holding ones brittle moon star.

With strained might it's forces burn the sea of mind,
Crashing thought-waves intoxicated on the outer worlds shore,

Breaking onto rough and rational sands,
Oft shadows of their true selves tender moon-star flaming,
Vagrants misunderstood and poor

And so ever the artist quests to rightly express,
pressurised creations they may yet release

Making room for the abstract storms atoms to saturate the waking,

Liberating its blooming centre of still, silent peace.