As the vine grows on the rotted oak life goes on,
and even as Icarus falls, the world is turning 'round.
Albeit small, our time spent breathing
is tantamount to something much greater
that we may never see, but will always seek.
Just out of reach we can see it gleaming: meaning.
Chased through the woods
by beasts of heavy stride and sharpened tooth
(ruthless in their pursuit.)
I find hiding from them and stay silent,
breathing deep the night that stings my eyes
with heavy sighs.
Tired, I am losing sight ahead of time and,
colliding with a ghost train of thought, I expire.
As the vine grows on the rotted oak, life goes on
and even as Icarus falls the world is turning 'round.
As the vine grows on the rotted oak, I grow strong.
I can feel the fire in my bones,
and I have opened up
to new worlds of possibility
that I have never known before.
I have evolved into something
far beyond that from which I once fled.
Others have ascended
away from sickness and death
(great and nameless.)
Through great migration, we've expanded and clasped hands
with the best of them.
As the vine grows on the rotted oak, I grow old.
I remember long ago when we could have saved the world,
but instead we built homes out of oil and gold.
I remember long ago when we destroyed the world.
Still alive, but not alone, those who cherish life will survive. As long as they have breath in them,
they will find the way and triumph death.