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The Passion



I am drawn toward those who celebrate,
to those who celebrate exuberantly.

Longing for the passion of the crashing wave,
I found instead the unsatisfying subtlety of its retreat.

Remember that dewdrops were not first seen as jewels;
jewels were first seen as dewdrops.

Why would you trade
similitude for sameness?

Let us see things as if we had sixty seconds left.
And let death always be sixty years off.

I'll go anywhere
that has more and better.

All sunlight is eight minutes old.
Darkness is eternal.

All poems are written and copyrighted by Michael C. Rush.
None may be republished or repurposed without permission.