Down here with the wind,
Down here with the shadows of pain
Which rain over us like a monarch...
Fluttering between the pathways of what could be;
Down here on the Earth,
Down here in my skin
Which can only deign
To cover over what's inside of me,
A sin which swallows the very breath I breathe.

Rules of war and rules of love,
Which by just means do they aim to be true,
Hardly fare well by any standard in the case of execution.
And always this battle between what is good and what is true--
Which by all means and by definition should the meaning not be same?
The jewels of love and tools of war,
Which, before the dust and rust and thieves and such destroy--
Do they many times aim too true,
Down this bloody stairwell of many answers,
To questions we do not yet know?

~ME
Thanks to my little sister Elizabeth for the inspiration "Down here with the wind.."