On the stage which we call life,
There’s a play on every day,
In the roles which we live,
Passion has its way,
It brings a trembling to the hands,
A tingle down the spine,
It stirs the heart to open up,
And pretend its doing fine.
Some sit back and watch the show,
Never intending to play their part,
While some act, out of their mind,
Instead of using their heart,
Every day the stories told,
But its narrated by the mind,
Yet passion can be the product of,
Those things we seek to find.
For some it emanates from the eyes,
While for others it comes from the soul,
As some pretend it doesn’t exist,
That its just an actors role,
If passion lives inside the heart,
Its not a play at all,
It survives the final scene,
When life’s curtain falls.
Passion may fuel a will to feel,
A hope that love survives,
It doesn’t need a stage to be,
Or need an audience to arrive,
Love and passion are really the same,
And in this heart they’ll always stay,
Because my leading lady’s found,
For this loves passion play.