Fire

My father, he calls it
Passion,
That incessant fire in my belly that
Sometimes sparks
From my tongue in moments of
Rage or defiance.
I can't believe that a word
So simple
Could spell out a
Phenomenon
So intensely internal.
This is more than
Passion
Than the
Waving of a flag
Or the
Wearing of a jersey
Or the
Cheering of a name.
It's a
Deep rooted
Affection.
A connection,
When viewed from above,
That looks to have the
Complex eccentricities
Of constellations.
This is more than
Passion.
This is a
Crimson desire
to want
To feel
To be
Anything and everything
All at once,
and to have an
infinite amount of
Time
To do so.
This is more than
Passion.
Passion is simply an
empty word to fill a void
When a heart is as
Full
As mine.

This poem is about: 
Me
Our world
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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