In the beginning of the end
if a soul is soiled beneath
the grave of one’s death
how can one bear fruits
Out from pure dust?
Passion is the word and life, that harbors pages
into broken births, made of chapters
that burns in lock, stock and barrel ages
in the flames of one’s mental inscriptions.
Passion is that passionate physician, constructing
the minds of these plebs
into finished muses
like to cudgel one’s brain
on broken back-grounds.