undying

when one outgrows his own clothes and the shoes he favored become unfit, he'd look at a mirror with disgust. he'd see that passion dies slowly with a heavy sigh. some would try to raise it from the grave, with some lucky enough to have it back on its feet. but in making a corpse look alive, the dirt under its fingertips still remains. death is embodied in every missing vein and beat. Passion would still smell of rotten dreams and smothered confidence. Some would be unfortunate and the dead would bring ghosts with it. Shadows would lurk on the corner of one's mind trying to unravel hope and be buried again on the same hole. what a haunting sight it is, to see passion come alive and die once more.