The Wilting of Hope

This race, the race for life or death we’re in,

To conquer and kill, to pillage and plow.

Achieved though fate or skillfully through sin

Ones instinct and really, only know how.

In forest’s depths a sprouting seedling grows,

Now stifled with the lack of light around.

It slowly dies unless the sunlight shows,

If death prevails its life dies in the ground.

The seeds who live and flourish into trees

Bear their cherished fruit, a prize for their power.

Those who lack the light upon their eager leaves,

Feel the fail of life in their unbloomed flower.

Alas the death of hope has then been told.

The seed still there beneath, extinct and cold.