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Passion

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A flame burning bright
Stained red by the blood of its victims
As it takes life from those who care
It is a silent killer

A rose, beautiful and sweet
Yet with thorns that pull at the flesh of the soul
Tears run from her eyes like blood from the wound.

Blood sweat and tears go into passion
Pushing her till she breaks
But in the end, who is worse off?

Them, who have never felt the pull on their hearts?
Or her, the one who felt that pull deeper then they could ever imagine
Who is stronger?

She picks up her head
And carries on,
Knowing that pull, that flame, that rose
Has given her something they don't have.

A reason to live.



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