Passion

Darkest passion hides behind the deadest eyes, and moans as sensual love poetry. Bubbles and boils, trapped, unabated, to distill such essence of passion which reality can only dream of bearing. To be able to burn, relentlessly, without melting, must be the only way to flame the fire to a temperature where coarse passion opens its pods to pearls of refined one, the love poetry.
Perhaps a blessing, and a curse too, of a poet of love.

Makes me envious.

-Pulastya