Passion isn't something you know is there. It lurks in the bellies of darkness and in the shadows of all light. It isn't the calm before the storm, or the storm itself. It is the aftermath. The mess, the complexities of the unknown.It is the quiver of distant sounds as you lay there alone. Nothing but a white ceiling above you and a silent mind raging to be spoken for. It is what you miss that you no longer have, it is your heart that yearns for more. And when finally you speak for that oppressed mind, shackled by your insecurity,You will find that all you speak isPoetry.