The Two Towers Once Fought the Battle of Life

A vignette

   The light, pastel blue horizon floated behind the two towers that sided the deep ravine.  One, an old lighthouse with chips of paint falling from the skin of history, a once great bastion of light that stood proudly. The deep orange rooftop tiles battled the wind, slowly losing the good fight, retreating into the veiled sea. No caretaker lived at the base; this tower was forgotten, ostracized. The grass at its ground danced softly with the streaming sea air. It was as if the salt in the wind made the grass glow with green delight. Juxtaposed were the rocks that furiously sliced through.
   The ravine was deep, broken apart. God himself ripped the land in two. Swords of stone fought with each other, earthly memorials left to limitless clashing knights.  So were the two towers, each in its kingdoms army. Silently jousting.
   The second tower was not a lighthouse, nor a home. Dark, glass stone, protruded slowly out of the earth. Ages have wondered their way by; time it counted. The grass along the ground pulled back in fear, leaving nothing, but hostile rock. Cutting through were the steps to the entrance, each one colder. This was Mother Nature's b*****d child, long forgotten. Its peak twisted upwards, strong and fierce, yet now the army of rocks disband, one by one.
   The two towers once fought the battle of life.

To indecision - went the spoils.