Conflict
A raging flame will scorch all in its path,
And set ablaze the remnants of the past,
Yet that same flicker warms the souls that hath
In yesteryear been far from solace cast.
The bubbling brew of liquid bursts from low,
Its twin from heaven drowns the folk on ground,
And yet that water soaking down below,
Provides new crop for starving babes abound.
The earth from which new sprouts burst forth anew,
Will often split destruction's rampant chase,
And stormy cyclones twisting lives askew,
Are made of stuff that gently cools a face.
If Mother Nature will not constant be,
Then what claim is there left to certainty?