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Passion
 

You were meant for passion, it’s the nature of skin,
but much more, beyond flesh, it’s the nature of soul
to find passion, and indeed it’s the very reason
one chooses to be born.

You kill for passion; you live for it;
you love for it; you write for passion
and forgiveness.

Running, running,
muscles stretched beyond strength,
lungs and blood pumping,
pumping, nostril flared,
a stallion . . .

it cannot be sustained.

You were meant for passion,
but you live confused by
its odd dosages until
you die in passion.
 

The Hand of Life

Shudder for the poor in spirit,
you shudder for yourself,
empty of solace, void of appeal,
seldom knowing a certainty
unless you feel euphoria . . .

all else is mundane and sad,
you grieve for your better self,
a being usually happy and always
content . . . where did you go?

The hand of life is seldom open
to you, as much as you wish
to be cradled.

It comes back to the shudder,
the way your mother brought
you forward, the same way
you’ll return to the earth,
and in between you
shudder for your fate.

The same way you
shudder in glee.
 

The Rub

You have studied history for forty years,
and in the end are awed by the common
aspiration of all eras to understand purpose.

This has led to many ills . . .
many odd leaders and many religions.

The core problem appears to be
the wrestling between body
and spirit; where the body
is unluckily temporal
while the spirit
is eternal . . .

the constant friction between
the two, the body and the spirit,
 is what creates art.
 
 

Motion

It flows. Your life
is the same as time.

The brown river of time
sweeps you forward,
the future flowing
toward you, inevitable.

As a thin child you were
able to more readily believe
in the sun, in the wind, time
and water: all in motion
with your youth to fulfill
something undescribed.

The river never ends . . .
you and the river are the same,
both will flow far past
the death of this one life.
 

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