"Life is not measured by the number of Breaths we take but by the moments that take our breath away." Our veil’s been touched, our frown's a stage to lift up, expressions etched in fury. Joy to gloom to failure we’re dying, trading air for dust, belief torn to shreds for compost, limbs bleached with dirty bombs dropped down into caverns of love, flattened to make room for peace beneath the willow, the hickory and the oak of our breath. We know of joy, of goodness. We’ve heard stories of love, love without fists shredding laughter, truth served with water alongside seeds beneath the sun. But now we know of life curved, fallen into the dusty crypt that twists our spines into shapes that break our bond with another, fists falling furiously upon the meek, bent in disregard, scowling of goodness between two worlds on the beam of man. Our feet are gaining weight, bearing without joy, hands gripped in fury, fingers paled with dread,
(The Weaver's Song)