It's hard to capture passion, an elusive force beyond our grasp.
Which defies laws, time, for fashion.
A smoky is behind the door, a twitching body against the floor.
These are passion, these and dreams of virgin whores.
The package stood in the shimmering night,
as if held fast, in the lunar light.
It's contents were poison to a person like me,
a harness of shackles devoid of a key.
The brittle corn stalks lay in shambled delight,
a long faded memory of August's sight.
In the greenest of minds the eye catches on,
to the strains of labor frosty,a nd gone.