It's not the first time,
It all got too much.
Straws, little weights,
Camels spitting, wicked dares not to touch.

Like little log houses,
Not designed for things grand.
Yet built with a whole forest,
A families, last stand.

And much like a dandelion,
Over crowded with seed.
The slights breeze tears apart,
What was held tight by births need.

So does this man,
Yield at far too much.
But somehow grips tightly.
His dreams held in a clutch.

In the end it's left to nature...
All things come with a peak.
No matter how strong,
Havock still finds, its own way wreak.

I guess the reality,
Is nothing's immune to change.
It's the way of death and of newness...
It's equivalent exchange.

But I pity those pieces,
Caught in the middle of this storm.
Even if flames bear fruit,
From the soil, is it torn.

So again I spit,
My walls creak under the weight.
I pray for the fruit,
Which I did help make.

And the earth that endures,
Or was simply consumed whole.
I wish you some time,
And rest for your soul.