The Clay That Molds Our World

The old tree stood grim and gnarled. The young children shrieking loudly crawled down beneath its hanging leaves, playing as if in song, but one sat idle resting on its knee; this small child's attention suddenly drawn to new life that grew and danced around him and the dying branches in their neglect, but did not view age an object of contempt. Wizened sage beyond all imagining withered leaves to an early fall, unless children sing and harder still they cling and grasp old hands in their magnificence in this innocent act of wakening when beauty dulls, no longer charms the flesh as days depart, new travels yet to come journeying to the focal point of love. Purified in the flames of heaven's fire heralded by the sounding of the call rejoicing in that childlike earthly choir reaching toward the mysteries of the soul. Enacting dreams flush with pure desire senses meet with new pathways to encode and these evolving spirits refashioning the clay that molds our world.