3/30/2010, age 15, school project


As a passion burns right through the soul,

Wood turns to embers that glow with the last,

Only to leave the broken compounds of its atoms behind.

Yet there is always that small bit of hope that remains

Even after the raging heat.  That hope, that dream,

That present tomorrow blossoms like a flower

In the sunlight, creating its descendants and energy

Through the chlorophyll and water running through its veins. 

This poem is about: 
Our world


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