It isn’t but to pass, the waning hour <br />Of desire and that opportunity nearly squandered - <br />The soul’s calloused scars of never-ending promise, <br />Denied in the vitriolic stream of unrelenting time. <br />She marches onward, unaware and unconcerned - <br />The iron pots that catch the winter rain, at first, <br />Giving life, before yielding to the springtime larvae <br />That aim to take it - unaware of the original intent. <br /> <br />This isn’t about the fawn, the calf, or the <br />Wide-eyed infant fixated on spinning toys <br />Dangled above his wooden prison - <br />It’s about the river and the delta, <br />It’s about the golden leaves. <br /> <br />Was that not a fading ember gasping last its final glow? <br />While the conflagration may relieve the forest of its vitality, <br />It proves essential to Darwinian prosperity - <br />We are life, and as life, we push through the ash <br />Of Pinatubo and Saint Helens. <br /> <br />Those towers, symbols, they might crumble, <br />But what is best is yet to be realized, friend - <br />They aren’t squandered, tragic, twisted, <br />Smoldered relics of achievement and faded glory - <br />But rather, opportunities to thrust through, renewed and anew - <br />Greater than the original intent and stronger than before. <br />The calloused resolve, the indomitable fortress of <br />Freedom, like a pinecone, requires flame to flourish.<br /><br />Kelly Vinal<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/fortress/
