as the mountain towers over
the shrivelled earth
and the remnants of yesteryears,
who knew that underneath grass, the clover

lies in wait; bidding time for when
the ploughboy wends across the field,
overturns the soil
and shackles the ground

it was a struggle under the starless skies
a wrestle with the shadows of the mountain
and little could he grasp and amount in,
but still he tries

again and
again  

the mountain sees and sings
for the ploughboy's labour to not be
in vain

for the clover to break ground and
for them to sprout as one
in the rain.

What if I told you that
your heart were like two tectonic plates  
that reverberate with the
drum of the earth

the tremors stretching vast and wide
would crumble your walls
and light them in flames

what if I told you that
there is beauty in the ruins
for those who seek to find
and light in the abyss
for those who wish to see

would you
let the ruins come alive,
let the earth of your heart
quake and quiver
like plates refitted together
wishing to shape
a new earth?

Behold; the strength of your soul