Passions

I know a little
about the passions that drive you,
those from above,
and those from below.
I do not understand, though,
why it is that any true dream
will take over your whole self, leaving
nothing for anything else.
The passions that drive you
exorcise all the ordinary,
consume you
as if there were a spirit
or demon that is the homunculus,
the little intelligence
behind your intelligence,
pulling the strings that you believe
no string is being pulled,
and what is you
for that while, is not you.
Some say that this is what it
truly is to live,
that the passions that drive you
are the things that make the meaning
that in our worldy existence
we all strive to attain,
and such journeys are their
own rewards. But I
might say that when the larger voices
speak through you,
when these passions produce
their mighty fruit,
such strange ambrosia
is not of this earthly plane, but
lets you taste a little of what
it must be like, either Heaven or Hell —
and makes one think
that there is an unseen world,
after all, moving through our hands,
becoming solid through us.