Passion Nada

Nothing I feel passionate about:

Cold showers against my inclination to warmth and comfort;

Summer on my mind, while the external is below freezing;

Chairs too unsettling. The bed cascades into perdition: Desolation, dejection, its fuel.

Whining is off the table; only wine diminishes the diner’s useless parable.

Hidden notes located, out of date, in the pantry – forgotten.

Ideas from the past, images no-longer relatable; the glow’s sheen etiolated: dead inside.


You caress the notion ‘passion’, finding warmth and comfort.

But all is ominous; news troubling; friends obscured.

Then love arrives, perhaps to kill you again: A death worth finding.


Yet the prospect does not hurt – because all passion is ad nauseum henceforth.

Go back to bed, the chair is uncomfortable; wassail with wine, drench the thoughts in chemicals… re-furbish your pantry: You are dead inside.



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