When I said goodbye I’m not sure if I truly meant it.
It was empty and cold,
like a hearth without loving kindling to ignite
Our hearth was fantastical and it burned passionately.
There wasn’t enough wood in all the forests that could satiate its hunger
Our hearth was forgiving,
And it grew experienced with age.
Regretfully,
Nothing is permanent.
Even the hottest of furnaces dim without fuel for the flame.
Our hearth became depraved.
Decrepit and deceitful.
Rusted over and inefficient.
I’d come to realize that we’d coddled the arsonist.
Our hearth, our home, was crafted from nothing and returned to nothing.
Regretfully,
Nothing truly is permanent.
J.D. is a freshman majoring in Aerospace Engineering and Astrophysics at University Park. He writes: “I love the arts (most specifically music), but thought I’d take a shot at poetry. Poetry has become a form of therapy for me and my friends recommended that I start to share, so here we are!”