Does it sleep in gutters slathered with banana peels, and newspaper, omitting the past?

Does it marinate and wait like steak soiled with seasoning in the fridge?

Does it wait for night to cease, to watch the dawn wake the shadows from their coveted domains?

Does it gorge upon feasts, while the less fortunate weep at its feet?

Does it hibernate through Winter, does it keep up with survival’s agenda?

Does it breathe deeply and, exhale calmly while other’s choke and wheeze?

Does it drift like the petals of a dandelion, carrying on wishes like a contaminating disease?

Does it ever keep its fragrant promises, or is passion as silly and indifferent as the direction of the breeze?

Does it forget the wounds of any heart, stitched like a baseball, thrown like a dart?

Does passion sleep, like a dormant volcano foreshadows imminent doom, cascading in legions rather than spiting in plumes?

Does passion depend upon the perspective; is passion fact or fiction?

Does one heart define it, while another can completely dismiss it?

Does passion transfer like energy, is it a variable or the constant?

Does it come and go, like the ebb and flow of a river, or does it remain sealed like a coke bottle?

Does it sleep after the initial urgency has been tended to,
Or does it seek other crisises to cater to?

Does passion deplete like sand in the palm of your hand?

Does passion prey upon vulnerable tender hearts?

Does passion design venerable soldier’s arms?

Does passion cease when blame can be placed?

Does passion transfer when intentions are accused of falsities?

Can it reside in two people, both tugging at opposing ends of the same rope?

Does passion sleep, if so then why do I crown these bags beneath my eyes, kings of my demise,
When justice and love were the gifts I doled out?

Does passion give a fuck if the ones that receive them are grateful or not?

Or is passion a persistence that can’t be stolen by any other contradiction?

Or is passion cast with iron, and conviction?

Or is passion the most important lesson to learn even in fiction?

Or does passion, whether right or wrong, reside in the motivation behind every great leader?
Every historical figure has felt a yearning that is never at peace,
But lingers in daydreams, haunts their sleep, creates empires,
Destroys beliefs, or signs treaties?

Passion has a thicker consistency than blood cells condone,
There is no fighting the infection, the battle only encourages it to grow.

Passion sleeps when there is no longer necessity,
Necessity is the mother of invention.
Invention is the father of evolution,
Evolution is the progression of mankind.
Passionless, we would be extinct,

Yet we numb our consciousness,
Accept defeat, and repeat, “It is what it is”,
The recent phrase, rattled off like a plague afflicting the brain.
Bettering ourselves has never bettered this world.
The majority think passion should sleep inside us, so absurd.

So I’ll listen to the undulant crickets that emphasize
My relentlessness in their superlative tone,
Regurgitating the same pitch though the reason
Will forever remain unknown.
They sing, because their passion compels them.
Because it swells within their sore throats
That innately expel the harmonic pitch that
once heard.

Passion doesn’t sleep,
People sleep,
I’ll keep dreaming that they don’t.
Maybe one day they will realize,
they don’t have to stop believing,
And with that hope, I won’t.