Passionate Riposte

Wisdom and lunacy, the serpent obediently poised before the mirror, vain emptiness and clever imagery never made more clear. Passion is alive in spite of fright, through consequence and altercation, recklessness and tribulation--Strained by vulnerability, passion knows only delight.
With effort, in struggle, with freedom--does passion take its flight.

Undifferentiated, yet so direct, however too obscure to predict, there is wisdom in its blindness, just as there is sight--Gleam and scatter, clip away the vesture of the drone, passion is, and of its own. Note the savage elegance, the refinment passion assumes when in demand, the rigorus agony he will withstand, passion is no woman, passion springs from the breast of man.

Imagined in the arms of warmth and spoken love, within the memories of dreaming never felt, so sharp upon the senses, the sword of passion glistens and it tilts, twisting fondness into foe, the tortured human apparatus at a loss, to explain its pleasure and its costs. Venture far beyond the reverance of trust and good deed, intense burning desire impounds the soul and speaks of need, the need to slip between the grasp of furry and despair, be warned by what you define as care--Only when the question and the answer fit, let passion be the reason told.

Set to song the whisper clear, the echo of familiar footsteps near, know devotion, be alert and quick, attentive to the agile heart, it's tenderness. Method and madness, the welling tear, furrowed brow pressed to the mirror, the serpent coils, halt! We bend in the shadow of its threat but find, passion yeilds not to that which is so blind, passion yeilds to pain and pleasures felt.

Nothing felt? Nothing known? Labor on and love and learn, to live and love again. It's far better to take the risk, there is no other way to yearn or know--Passion is as passion does, alive, alive and ever free--Every effort has it's turn.