Passion cannot be measured
with the scent of a tea rose in June,
it cannot be told
from the first breeze at dawn
never to whisper
but screamed at the top of your lungs.
Passion is not the sea,
not the river
not the mountain
not buried deep in your garden
as it cannot be hidden
the furious cascade of water
changing the river to foam.
Passion is more the rage of a gale,
than the scent of sun-kissed laundry.
more the thorn than the petal,
it’s the red hot poker
blinding your eyes.
Passion is growing
from love or from hate
hard to distinguish
from battles fought in the dark.
Passion is lack of control
the firework
with a fuse already lit
your chaos or maybe
just an excuse.
Hilma af Klint
Hello, today I host dVerse where we once again use negation trying to write about complexe matters. Join us, whan we open at 9 PM CET
August, 6 2026
Björn Rudbergs writings 
Hi Bjorn, this is an interesting interpretation of passion. Nicely done.
I enjoyed your chaos, Björn, and your negated exploration of passion, especially the sudden scream at the top of one’s lungs and the ‘firework
with a fuse already lit’.
Passion is quite a thing… glad I don’t have so much any longer.
I enjoyed your exploration of passion. I especially liked, all the sensory elements of this:
“Passion is more the rage of a gale,
than the scent of sun-kissed laundry.”
Thank you for the prompt!