August 22, 2011
By Anonymous

I stand in the cracked ashen ground,
Only dry and black ash remains
Of the once densely packed forest
That had thrived not long ago,
Until that vicious fire
Burned it to the ground.
Now all that is left is a
Wasteland of ash.
I shuffle through the rubble,
Reminiscing on all the times
I had walked through these woods,
So thick with foliage
That it was always as dark as night,
The trees so high, blocking out any light
And preventing any new foliage from growing,
Not that it mattered,
The trees were so grandiose and magnificent,
There was a majestic feeling to the forest,
An ancient feeling coating the life there.
I look down at what the grand forest
Had been obliterated into,
But protruding from the black ground
I see a spot of green.
As I walk closer I realize that
Amidst the tomb of this forest
A little flower bud has sprung up
Only thriving from the
Newly exposed sun light.
How curious it is,
That it takes the
Destruction of a forest
For a small but beautiful flower
To have a chance at life.
One good thing,
Coming out of a devastating event.
Though I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised,
Because isn’t that the way life is?

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