Emerald Tower

A poem about something beautiful I saw in nature.

Emerald Tower

The red and blue lines rise and twist as they climb the emerald tower
tracing pathways and walkways, routes for supplies and storage.
Upwards they climb and grow, painting stained glass on the atrium at the top.
It was supposed to be a weapon, a poison, death and destruction
for the tower.
It was supposed to be a cancer, a disease of epic proportions
to erode the tower, to destroy it and allow it to be plowed under
and forgotten.
The hardship was hardly felt, the destruction barely noticed.
The scars of trials, battles won, and fought and lost
only made the tower more beautiful for all the world to behold.