Where does my passion ponder
Where does it plow?
Never too deeply in my bone
For it sticks sweetly to my skin
Flickering fondly and fervently forth

Into my hands as they harvest high heat
Emanating from my ebullient embankment of a brain
Onto the paper I write upon,
I pensively play precious pranks
On my own voracious vivid and vast heart

How hard do you beat, high heart?
Whom do you beckon to bereave you of breath?
Do they know whose precious passion they prey upon?
And how much are you worth
Without the willingness to work for the withheld
For the unfortunate, unable to unearth their freedom?

Come close, passionate piece, passionate peace.
Make yourself music. Make yourself mighty. Make mend.