The seeds of salvation
Encased in a tomb
Sealed there in wax
For flames to consume.
Yearning in enchantment
For disaster, they plead.
Dormant and patient,
Sit several small seeds.
Ages and ages
They still do lie.
White lightning streaks
Across the night sky.
Tall timbers creak
Possessed with disease.
Needles snap dryly,
Under foot, ground beneath.
In the future of forests,
Looms the spark of a flame.
The cruel fact that nothing
Ever remains the same.
Small embers smolder
A sizzling strike splats against tree,
A singular spark survives,
The descent to the leaves.
The wind comes howling
Down from the hills,
Gifting wings of
Destruction the means to
fulfill.
Eyes glow red with furry,
Embers float up away,
Thick billows of smoke
Block out the light of the day.
Molten ash fills the valleys,
Torching the trunks of trees,
Nothing here remains
But a few little seeds.
In a tomb built for
Slumber long had they
slept,
Trickling creeks turn to
Rivers from all the tears
wept.
Raging and roaring,
Washing soot from the soil,
These clear mountain streams,
Run black as crude oil.
Yet downward they surge
Across the line in the sand,
Extinguishing the flames,
Returning life to the land.
A forest reduced to ashes,
Except a lone little seed,
Whose heart became found
Bursting forth from beneath.
Outward reach branches
There a broad trunk grows,
A monument to a forest,
That still no one knows.
But the Great Tree remembers
Of blackened bare hills.
The charred bones of flora
Toward the horizon, they
spilled.
Traveling across the slopes
Of the stripped desolate
land.
The seeds of salvation,
Cradled in cracked calloused hands.
For there are those among us,
Who've walked forth through flames.
The lost souls of Khaos,
Vibrant blooms of decay.
