The Rock
A man walked down a winding road,
Clutched in his hand a smooth rock.
He thought about his day and said nothing.
He was covered in ashes and so was his rock.
His rock was from the room in his daughter’s room.
It was her pet rock.
He was alone in Pompeii or so he thought.
The volcano it spewed and he ran to the sea.
He ran to escape his life.
The volcano took it all away.
His friends and family all a memory.
He sat down on the pier and slid into the water.
Wading a path to the nearest boat.
Still clutching that smooth rock.
What man runs from history.
No man can escape history,
Unless they chose to never be remembered.
He left a world behind that was remembered.
He will not.
We only know from the great historians.
We only know from the excavations.
You know, Time will tell if we run or we fall.
Will we be remembered at all.
I wrote this for myself. It was an ode to my love of history and how I have overcome so much in my life. How I want to create a lasting legacy and not run from history. I want to charge head first into it and help those who really need it.