Passion weeps in the air of midnight
as if time will reverse misfortune.
It becomes a tool to ensnare yearning.
Moves with simplicity,
at times seeming more than it is.
It roars on the edge of reason,
clawing back when moments leave it undone.
ingests each ounce of perspiration pressed to skin,
breathes every breath
tangoes with delight.
Only those open to hear can see,
the tested and worn acute to its call ,
because they care to find it.
We givers rarely meet the same,
casting our bread to the takers.
Passion wavers on scarlet skies,
sighs with joy in its eyes.
It becomes amused and exasperated,
a gushing torrent of lost control,
throwing possibility face down.
In its weakness it offers its hand
knowing simplicity is rarely enough
Beauty…
beyond sight
is not found…
it is perceived