To March, Upon, That, Righteous, Path. Poem by Michael Gale

The winds of war waft on down, deep into my lungs of pain...
Only emmitting odors to my nostril's, of an ugly and foul smelling, pain.

Pained this heart, to emotional disdaine...
Cannot I be utterly, a very, visibly, as plain?

War, hunger, and worldly disgust...
The things of which, we all, mis-trust!

We warriored groups, must march on, in time...
As we avoid all hurdles, that we know, we must scale, and climb.

Atop life's peaks, do we cling...
Crowned in glory, we be a, king.

Set aloft, the feet to God...
Us all, inhued, in a righteous, new bod'.