Where does passion go?
Why does it flee before it is spent?
Has it no sense of time, nor pace?
What does one do with a heart rent
by passion’s too swift flow?
How empty is a life bereft of passion.
How lonely is a passionless soul.
Time stands still and lingers in empty space
covered in ash from burned-out coal.
The need to re-light passion is out of fashion.
Where does passion go?
I, certainly, do not know.
annarino writes 