The Hole

There is a hole.

A deep, dark, empy hole.

Though this chasm resides in a vast, breathtaking area of land,

It has more impact than all the trees and mountains that surround it.

Occasionally, items get tossed down into its depths, 

A lantern or candle for instance.

It lights up the hole, and in some instances,

Completely fills it, until the light burns into a little coal,

And Darkness claws its way back in.

But this abyss is not destine to reamain empty forever, 

For the dirt that would imbue it resides not far from the void.

But alas, there is no shovel,

Not yet anyway.

That is lying in some tool shed somewhere,

Collecting cobwebs and dust.

The dirt that is destine to fill that dingy fissure,

Will reside in its place until someone,

Some wondering soul,

Comes across that empty hole,

And takes interest in that empty hole,

And wants to fix and fill that empty hole.

They'll find the shovel, and they'll find the dirt,

And they'll fill that hole until it reaches the level of ground it once penetrated.

And that person, who put all the love and effort into filling

That deep, dark, empty hole, 

Will make a home atop it.

And that person will live atop that once empty hole,

Until time melts them together,

And causes everything that surrounds them to become

A deep, dark, empty hole.