Passion

It is passion that humans worship,

their own, what they are proud of,

certain of its superiority to cold reason.

Intellect labors in service to passion.

The scientists make tools, and medicines, and weapons,

each employed according to impulses that we call

Emotion, Passion, Drive, Heart, Patriotism,

whatever bullshit of the moment sounds

like a noble motive, an authority higher than reason,

better than caution, wiser than restraint, deeper than shame.

For this passion, we who rejoice in puppies and flowers,

melt the skin off of innocent people who want nothing

more than peace and a few boring years on the clock

of infinite time wherein one lifetime is so small

we have no instrument to measure it and say,

"Yes, this is your portion of the unfolding of the universe."

It cannot be seen, not heard, not marked on a clock.

Too small.

But still you cannot have it.

Your infinitely small claim on the universe

cannot be permitted.

My life, your life, all lives,

are kindling for the furnace of passion.

However important you see your life,

or the lives of all forms of heroes,

we are all less important than war.