Passions

But there is flammable passion,
That arrives in thrilling fashion.

From where and how, I do not know.
It is defined by what it sows.

It sows its envy and disdain.
It sows selfishness made plain.

It puts reason in suspense,
By victimhood and offense.

It breeds regret and some more,
Once my sense comes back to fore.

Oh my, oh my, how could it be,
Always overtaking me.

Without warning, without a clue,
Without resist, what can I do?

I’m blinded by malignity.
Concerned so of my dignity.

And other passing, pithy things.
Despite the hurt they always bring.

Upon my passions, I relied.
For these times, it was my guide.

But when the passion’s gone away,
I find I’m banished and a stray.

All alone but for my thoughts.
Thinking through the if’s and ought’s.

And ways to make it right next time.
Perhaps if I recalled this rhyme?

Remembering, that’s what it’s called.
How I care less, how I’m enthralled.

How all of this is nothing new.
How the goods deny the true.

What good is good anyway,
If truth is ever on delay.

What on earth does all this mean?
Will I realize, will I come clean?

In time, yes, probably so.
But for now, most likely no.