Juxtaposition

I

Uprooted when the cold wind blows
revolving like a hapless leaf
we end up where no sunlight goes.

In tranquil groves creation grows
but leeward plots are often brief.
To tumble when the cold wind blows

and gyrate in contorted throes
of stormy overwhelming grief
and land where sunlight never goes

regardless whether weed or rose
will ruffle even stout belief.
Uprooted when the cold wind blows

alighting someplace no one knows
beyond redemption or relief
to shrivel where no sunlight goes

and wallow in depressing woes;
you can’t deter this craven thief—
uprooted when the cold wind blows
we drop where sunlight never goes.

II

How fragile is the fleeting spark
whose incandescence helps assuage
the grimness of the night so dark,

an emptiness so wholly stark
we battle it with fiercest rage.
How fragile is the fleeting spark

bequeathed by a propitious lark
which drives us to forever wage
our fight against the night so dark;

regardless if we miss our mark
inciting courage to engage.
How fragile is that fleeting spark

whose finicky precocious arc
reveals a way to flee the cage
that holds us in the night so dark.

With bold defiance we embark
upon a quest to somehow gauge
how fragile is that fearsome spark
emblazoned in the night so dark?