There's beauty in broken things.

There's promise in the breaking.

There's wistfulness when it's deep.

There's hunger upon the waking.

There's faltering and wavering,

Doubting and delaying,

Then brashness and surity,

And finally quiet understanding.

A rare token is the climb and the rise.

A reward to be highly valued.

It's in the fall and on the way down

That we learn the sadness of silence.

There's beauty in broken things,

So be tender and strong and aware,

It's a full and lonely land,

We'll all see each other there.

The Thing We Call Passion: Restlesness

This thing that screams. With a scream so restless and urgent. The tone of it enough that you beg to be shattered.

It's the uncontrolled desire to be lost. To forget and be forgotten. It's eager and greedy for adventure and loneliness. But not the lonely part of loneliness, the solid part.

Being ravenous for the unknown but reluctant to learn, for the things you know you hate. It will not be pacified.

Living dead center in your chest. It takes you hostage. With lenses that show, you despise the things you thought you loved. The only promise of release...a new place.

And so you leave. Knowing the thing will be pacified. Lulled into satisfied slumber at the expense of your life.

You begin to build your kingdom. Piece by piece, until they fit, each part snug against the next. And you smile and release your held breath.

And in the silence between your exhale and the next breath you breathe. This wild thing awakes and you discover, with equal parts excitement and despair, that the keystone to your kingdom is in the hands of the beast.

The Thing We Call Passion: Melancholy

There are moments, there are days, there are weeks when I am filled with the deepest melancholy. As if the only feeling my simple soul recognizes is the tender sadness that floats among the quiet.

The wild thing inside of me, with the flowing hair and eyes deep as an ancient well, hungers and demands to be fed. Only satiated by the most tragic and heart-bending tales and whispers.  

It can be exhausting. Exposed and turned about by this wild thing. Every whim and request carefully examined for the thread of self-destruction it so very likely holds.

But alas, there is nothing that can be done. Except to surrender and feed the thing what it so desperately craves. Crying hot tears of sorrow to placate, if only momentarily.

And you're left feeling spent. The wild thing all consuming until it's gone. Leaving you hollowed out and not unpleasantly empty. And you can proceed, albeit cautiously. For you do not know, and it is never expected, when this wild thing will raise it's beautiful head, hungry.