I recall too late

How hollow every victory

How shattering every loss.

There stood my friend, head thrown back as he speaks to the crowd

Of his conquests and victories.

His smile and strong handsome features, glowing in the lights that shine on him alone.

No one knew then that in a year he would be dead

Run down, not looking up until it was too late.

I stay late to teach a class

Of young people who are ready to change the world

And I tell them to have passion.

Most people never have passion; most people live their lives counting years

Until they run out of them and they die, lonely in dark rooms.

How wrong I am

Many people have passion and it ruins them

It chokes them until anger, greed or lust drives them to the edge.

Perhaps the happiest people are those who find love and gather their children to them

On cold dark nights and tell them stories about people with passion

 

 

 

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