Poetry

Like the gentle licks of a flame, engulfing a log, 
The subtle embrace flows steadily, beautifully, 
Slowing the constant, mechanical turning of cogs, 
Revolving ever so absolutely and duly, 
Divine hues, of imperial blues, 
Surge through the skies, and implant mischevious roots, 
Growing trees that will illuminate the midnight skies, 
As the dark wolf howls, and the alert owl hoots, 
We set down our tools and rub our weary, reddened eyes, 
And long for the night, then like sparrows, take flight, 
To the nest that has been waiting patiently, calling, 
Ablaze in the ember that burns a dark, navy blue, 
And like leaves, we ride the wind, gently, lightly falling, 
'Till we reach the long pastures, where ideals ring true.