The cemetery looks familiar,
the names on the stones are not strange.
The Composer. The Explorer. The Inventor. The Poet. The Dreamer. The Teacher. The Child.
Oh! Is your name also there?
They whisper in the wind.
Passion was not born in the light —
it was a small flame, carried through the dark.
It lived, it breathed,
it burned in every waking hour —
until it didn't.
Not like a candle snuffed gently,
but Rome collapsing in on itself,
a king choking on his own crown,
light flickering in its glory,
Its funeral is no quiet mourning.
it is a horror,
A silent scream that drowns the world in silence.
They were here once, as you are now.
And soon... will you be there
watching and celebrating
The Death of Passion
festomanolo