For the Hero
A prophecy is molding the outcome;
Clay is wet and sticky and flawed,
Resisting the prophecy's slim fingers.
On the turner, clay swiftly crumbles,
Flecks of lint and grains of sand
Embedding into its skin.
The prophecy cries out,
Pounds the clay back, furiously
Remolding the rebellious product.
Slowly it takes a form-
A soldier full of courage, pure
Love exuded in the eyes;
A marked man for the better.
And in the persistence lies the key,
The very answer of inevitable war-
He cannot live while
The darkness presides.
*Thank you so much to BrokenPromise for her critiques and suggestions (and support)!*