Poems about Passion poems

It reasons the warmth when chilledGracious delight to know the rising sunto be shined as when quivering by the frostwhen intense by the wind shedding the painsthe woes when alone may be flicked by

Last night I was out of myself....Wandering, running, searchingFrom street to streetFrom river to river...Panting, shivering, fallingMy heart had been stolenHow could I go back without it? Wher

Passion kills, Passion thrills, Passion fills, with a sense of purpose..........Passion may chill, Passion makes ill, Passion is still, Pain mistaken as passion........(2 7/Jan'/'09)

For weeks I looked and searched in vainWhen you were the only cure to my pain..Just one of your gaze was enough to quenchthe thirst of my heart that was wrenchedLet me drink you, my love and soak

Love is a breeze of the dawn caressing our skin, Passion is a fire which melts our heart.Love is kindnessthat touch and does not get aged, Passion is a volcanothat blows up in eruption.Love

There is no crime in passion, only if jealousy perceives it be. Passion means love, an outpouring of emotions there. The green-eyed monster only arises if an angry confrontation flares.(18 Ju

You said, 'Watch me while I get dressed..'strong tighs...legs of warrior ready for a fight, as you come out from the room,25 minutes has passedand all I witnessed is your good shape like that of a

Mirrored echoes dance, shades leave behind Upward spiral, circle higher still. Shadow personae played out, heart and will, Inside and out reflect hopes redefined. Can this light true remain or wan

Passion Flower recallsThe agony of His deathNature thus reflectsAuthor: Mary Havran

Flames of raging lust, thoughts of fiery dust, sparkling kindled heartsblazing in the dark.Arms enfolding, holding tight, bodies joining in the night, hands soft and tender, grasping, rendingf

Night of passion, the day of feelings, you see my smile, you see my joyyou Filled my dreams, you fill my empty sadness, my night with you, my day with to you Your passion, my sweet passion, You w

Does it irk one that poetswho think real poetryconsists almost solelyof exclamation pointsand impassioned rhetoric? Is there no room in prosodyfor the quiet meditative poemor the modern ironic