Rock
by Odin Roark

Integrity.

Once of hardness,
forged by aging magmatic knowledge,
wisdom knowing no better,
even as ignorance threatened.

Fire burns today
not by nature's will,
not by a species sense
over nonsense,
but as a match stick
struck to inflame covetous power,
where blazing ego,
scorching paths,
flouting consequence,
allowing acrid smoldering the eventual conquest.

As children we are told
don't play with fire.
How quickly we forget.

Few grow up with discernment,
choosing instead defiance as rational,
by ignoring one's personal flame,
carelessly gathering kindling,
like pick-up-sticks of innocence,
begging to be enlightened,
yet ignited with the breath of darkness,
fanned by habitual schoolyard arrogance,
flagrant hubris still afire.

But lest we forget…

Ashes are not without purpose.
Nature remembers.

And so it goes.

Stalwart sentries grow back,
providing nourishment and cover.
For just as explorers require time
seeking truth amongst tangled mass,
knowing there has never been
flames of ice,
rock without molten birth,
life without death.

And yet…

Sleepers sometimes arouse

Would that the time be near
when our species again
awakens leaden-heavy eyes,
inhales pure air,
knows nomadic winds
seek out personal fires,
nurtures accountability,
relumes integrity,
and makes room for
our own rock in progress.