Passion weeps in the air of midnight

as if somehow time will reverse misfortune,

become a tool with which to bludgeon its hatred.

It moves with simplicity that even scholars find bemusing

making it more than it ever really was.

It roars on the edge of reason,

clawing its way back when moments have left it undone.

It reads every ounce of perspiration meshed with heated skin

and it breaths every breath.

Only the blind can see.

The tested and worn acute to its perception,

because they care to find it.

We weave its tails as if bonded by an old friend.

Unrelenting it finds us.

Serves us.

Passion wavers on scarlet skies

and sighs with joy in its eyes.

It becomes amused and exasperated.

A gushing torrent of lost control.

Throwing possibility face down.

Yet in its weakness it offers its hand,

content in the fact that simplicity will never be simple enough.

but nothing ever is.

Beauty

only made in the perception.