Where has my passion gone? I used to write poems in my sleep, with my eyes closed. Was it love? Is it always love, then? Can nothing else get me there? Can nothing else stoke the fires? Must it always be that greedy, selfish Eros? There must be another way. Is Love the only answer? I still have words. I never run out of those. That would be the death of me. But the fires, the passion, have cooled. Blues and whites instead of oranges and reds. I rarely write poetry. Poetry, I admit, is a lover's language. Prose has enough words to drown out a dried up heart and pretend to believe in eternality. For that's what love is in the end, right? Eternality. A thread that remains intact beyond the veil.
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Poetrysuppose Truth was a woman... * * * A collection of poems & thoughts about life and death and everything in between. * * * Disclaimer: Everything you read here was collected directly from my notes and journals, so please excuse any excess passion or...
