The sun holds on to its clouds
Colors and a flock of birds burst across the gentle expanse of glowing sky
Placid as the vast, O my heart longs to be
But I am in the mire and in the dirt and in the quick
I am in the mud and within the bloody teeming clumps of limbs on the battlefield
I ache and strive to levitate beyond the squalor
To lift up out of my smallness of mind
But in the squalor there is life
In the mud there is movement
In the blood there is a future
And in the sticky abominable teeming mess
And mess gives rise to growth