Passion is a fleeting beam;
Perspicuous to the artist,
To others unseen.
'Tis a cloud in the sky bare
That befuddles his vision
Inadvertently.
Emotion is a whirring gale
Resounding to the poet,
To the rest unheard.
'Tis an ever-changing well
Of humid creativity
And decaying dearth.
There'd be nowhere to dwell
If had to stick to the same swell
For a life unlived in its full breadth
Would not be life, but death.
