The Tower

With waves lashing on upon you,
Basking in your solitude,
Upright you stand amidst dark grey clouds
With stone-cold gaze of grey-black stone.

Wind whistling, leaves rustling, the low roar of an upcoming storm,
Challenging your desolate, ashen form,
Has not a fear inside you crept
For in the storm, you would soon be swept?

And now the winds grow deranged,
Clouds gathering around; darkness in the day has crept,
Rains pounding, winds howling,
A grand colosseum is set
With you a lone gladiator,
Facing tides on tides of armies.
Among the stands I watch, hoping against hope,
You hold your form, you stand your ground,
Against mighty Violence.

As I watch, a mighty flash shines forth from the sky,
Dazzling the crowd in radiant white;
Our faces in shock as we behold your crown
Is blown off, and arching across the sky,
crashes with a thunderous sound, its light extinguished.
Cracks—a multitude of spider webs, across cold grey stone
spring forth like pestilence, upon your walls.
And oh the crowds sigh, as these faults grow large,
As the Warrior that you are,
Gets subdued by Violence.
In your place, a diminutive stub lies,
A memory of what has been.

For hours the rain lashes on,
Batters the stub which refuses to budge;
Sullen and bored, the crowds leave.
I am left alone, till the sun comes
Clearing the clouds away,
And a merry tune of sundry birds
Fills the skies again.
Within the stub, a tiny plant springs forth
Spreading dew glistened leaves towards the sky
A Hope for Future.

Photo by Philipp Pilz