How solid does this world so written seem to us and yet,
how easily and quick, can be humbled, returned to rubble,
made to pay the price that madness, rage and power expect;
such devastation mocks what we believe, shatters the material.
As wreckage rests reluctant on once such solid, certain grounds,
so do we seek to make of it some sense, that purpose spells,
which buries in the burning fires and scorched surrounds,
a reason for it all that lifts us up from mind's now blistered hells.
Within the sulphured flames and blackened ash of life reduced,
we pick through traces, tread upon that which once was real,
and know that in destruction will be found, if sanity deduce,
that transformation lies in littered, hidden waste and it will heal.