Like a dormant volcano, it sits-- Not quite dead But void of its once endless vitality Passion bows to apathy The depth and the vastness remain, Its sheer mass still impressive But like an ancient legend from centuries past, It sits--cold and stiff and tired, Drowning in a sea of dust and irrelevancy What is death But fuel without flame? Dormant is not dead Patient is the beast who slumbers through winter As bitter and lonely as it may be-- Though he cannot be certain He knows if he can endure the winter, He just may be rewarded with spring