Passion is our native tongue
but our forgotten language.
Passion has its own major key.
Passion has it own strum,
its own source of smolder,
and its own way of gathering the kindling
for the eternal burn.
Passion, like an underground coal fire,
may burn in the deep and the dark,
without appearance as if thought to be a hellmouth,
bent on lust and therefore, never spoken.
Yet passion is to dance
as if no one within you is watching.
Passion is aliveness without effort even being invited.
Passion invigorates without sensory audience as approval.
Passion is the coloration and not the view of it.
It is the essence before manifest becomes the expression.
Passion is the ether fuel brought into breath,
breathing it alive.
Passion gives the mind full permission to fly
with a full wind wardrobe going forward.
It is forth-dimensional curvaceousness
in a “sign here” situation.
Passion is the ebb and flow of a standstill,
bound to waltz endlessly.
Passion leaves auras in footprints of hereafters,
aromas that linger in lightness
and the upsweeps of a psychic fragrance
as if pheromone incentives.
Passion licks a dimension that we rarely
can sanely touch.
Passion is an inferno of wholeness,
brought forth to invite.
Go ahead, find a way,
your own way, to let yourself in . . .