Long Ago

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.