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.
Bottled inside a twisted mind, in flooding horror undefined.
Unbottled, unbridled, no fixed sight to point my gaze, surrounded in a sweaty,
sticky, haze, of passion.
Floats, a far, then draws nigh, and buries it's self within your eye.