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We, oft, fall victim,
to grand expectations,
and stories that we tell ourselves.
Plunging; tall and stricken,
into concrete pooled stations,
from great heights. Atop lofty, trunking shelves.

Yet, there is enduring power in sheer belief.
That gives rise to flowers of blessed relief.

Belief is enough to grow far-reaching armly oaks.
From the tight fists of acorns; designed bespoke.

We, oft, raise champions,
from the splintered edge of defeat.
Chiseled and carved from drifting wood.
That, burn bright, in their transience. Or,
rout on seas forged by treen Empiric fleets.
Both, casting; mighty shadows, long, understood.

Yes, there, is; enduring power, in sheer belief,
for, conkers; to bloom into horse chestnut trees,
and, conquer worlds; of fire and water, brief.

© poormansdreams

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