Passions

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Steel and girts 

Made a beautiful form

The destroyer decided
It’s old and worn
You could see the designer
In every beam 
Gave heart and soul
For this inanimate thing
The tragedy’s not cement and steel
It’s in the loss of his passion


Poets and writers 
Know this too well
We read what they wrote
The stories they tell
Each person with struggles 
Though they’re  long past
We see ourselves
In the plays they cast
Every closed book is a tragedy
Not for the words but the passion

Deathbed regrets
Loves that weren’t  wrought
Despite our successes  
What time could have bought
For rich or for poor 
Ambitions will end  
Leaving to all; our passions

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