The Clay That Molds Our World Poem by Captain Cur

The old tree stood grim and gnarled. The young
children shrieking loudly crawled down beneath
its hanging leaves, playing as if in song,
but one sat idle resting on its knee;
this small child's attention suddenly drawn
to new life that grew and danced around him
and the dying branches in their neglect,
but did not view age an object of contempt.

Wizened sage beyond all imagining
withered leaves to an early fall, unless
children sing and harder still they cling
and grasp old hands in their magnificence
in this innocent act of wakening
when beauty dulls, no longer charms the flesh
as days depart, new travels yet to come
journeying to the focal point of love.

Purified in the flames of heaven's fire
heralded by the sounding of the call
rejoicing in that childlike earthly choir
reaching toward the mysteries of the soul.
Enacting dreams flush with pure desire
senses meet with new pathways to encode
and these evolving spirits refashioning
the clay that molds our world.