The death of passion

When a passion dies its all
blood and gore and guts.

We are alive after all,
living and breathing,
thinking and dreaming...

We come from dust,
Breathe it in till our last day
and end up in it.

Banished souls we,
Did God ever will
to take us back?

Maybe that was the initial idea
at inception.
But as we took to this dust,
as we meshed into this
blood and guts,
Could He have left us to it?

What are we without our passions.
I am faceless,
My passion makes me.
It pulsates in my veins
and moves me.

I am dead without it.
An empty shell in its absence.
Surely that was not His idea.
Why would He imbue us with passions
Only to make us vow to give up on them.

This is a purgatory;
Possibly,
Truth or hyperactive fanaticism,
we would never know.

But why should I be afraid of it
if I was destined to be here.
A purgatory entered in self consciousness
would be akin to a rehab.

The religious will agree to this.
Because for them we are born sinners.
And to them love
in its regenerative form,
is a depravity.

If God is within,
How are we sinners without?
Maybe Adam and Eve shouldn't have sinned,
But that is all myth.

What is the truth about creation...
Is there a God?
I see my life,
I grieve the death of my passions,
I can touch the dust on my lips
and the tears on my cheeks.
I can touch my child
I can treasure my father
but I can't see God.

How am I to walk the paths
that lead to Him,
If I can't feel Him within.

Maybe the earth is more ethereal
than we realise.
But killing my living breathing passion
for a faraway chance of a glimpse
of ether,
would be like Abraham killing Issac.

My passion was born from me.
It took form from the dust
of my body.
Its death causes me grief.
Saps into my livingness,
makes me empty.

I witness it helplessly.
All the blood and gore couldn't
stand up to a bit of ether.