It is Passion without P, Gianna without G
It is everything and nothing
High and low, a waking dream
There and back and everywhere in between-
It runs deep enough to surpass the oceans
But is reduced in words to a puddle on the page.
-It is immense and limitless
A ceaseless abyss,
Seemingly with no measurable end,
The only end at the beginning,
It spans the furthest extent,
To the most vast of extremities
And even beyond
To unexplored unknown and inexplicable regions-
Yet here, now, this river runs dry.
-An oasis: there to those who see it,
Full of water, life, and hope
Not merely imagined, but felt
Felt so often to such a point that
It even tricks the mind;
For those who neither see
Nor feel it, it can be no more than sand
And no matter what the others say,
No matter how much they emphasize,
describe, or insist
They can never bring it to life for you;
Until you feel it, see it,
Until it exists in you as it exists in them-
It will never be more than sand.
You will never grasp it or hold it close.
It will never be more than paper thin,
Something you don't know, something
that can't be taught, that can't be more
Than a puddle on a page.
There is far more
Than what exists to the eye,
There is a myriad
Which can be known
Which can be felt
But still never, never be more than a puddle;
So still, you're left with high and low,
Everything and nothing,
Passion and Gianna-
But still no P, no G.