i am a butterfly
dreaming as a man
i am war's passion
crimson like blood let
and the dove
labored by his own beak;
the last breathed breath

when its later in the day
do our definitions matter,
or how we saw things?
when what we did
is what has been done
and at last
we've run our run
does it matter
who we were
or of us, that had become?

all is forgiven
in the setting sun