Passion 1987

What kind of death does passion die?
Why, remarkably passionless.
Corn stalks stubble my heart on a cold November night.

What makes us burn out and collapse in like a white dwarf star?
Able only to entrap but not to share a bit of light?

With only the cold and quiet of eternal space
To keep us company in the dark.

Trapped in orbits of silence we seek the company of comets,
Standing in a field of stubble
On a clear November night.

I search the heavens for a moving light,
A chance to feel some passion of desire or else
Exhale and frost the stars,
Turn and go back inside.