Wanting is the wisdom that itself overturns,
The yearning for that which learning spurns.
For the lingering eye is an egg unhatched,
And those yolks within are sly smiles catched.

It is in that glance which ever after burns,
That we find out what promise a lover earns.
Words left unspoken are gates left unlatched:
True oaths are all in bloody backs scratched.

But all I know of passion is a roaring flame,
That hungering heat that will never be tame.
Its searing need is a instant now grown old,
A time made bold once all prudence was sold.

Our quenching leaves but ashes and shames,
For all it lends its heat to certain names,
The longing left after need not be told,
For aching lingers after the bed grows cold.

But the moth flutters ever back into candle bright,
By fire singed away into nothing, night after night,
To blaze and burn and be burnt is forever our plight
As long as it beats, the heart can't not seek delight.

-Grek Lockwood