“Know all is well

despite the thrashing at the gates.”

Despite the thrashing at the gates,

the stricken cries,

call down the stairs and hear a voice reply,

“Know all is well,

no harm will touch the ones I love,

for none be well till all is won.”

Call down the stairs and hear a voice reply,

but was it his?

Or some imposter breaking through the locks?

I hear the ringing of alarm,

some scoundrel in the garden groans,

call down the stairs and hear no voice reply;

Call down the stairs and whispers of the dead

draw close and pale lips smile,

“Know all is as it is; know all is well.”

Hear the thrashing at the gates,

know all is lost, a quelling of all light.

The strongest are the soonest dead.

Despite the voice that comforts with replies,

all now hear the thrashing at the gates,

know mothers in the garden with their milk,

are dying of their purple wounds.

I would descend. I would escape.

The dying stab the living to the heart.

The strongest are the soonest dead.

But stomacked with intent

I will descend, be buckled into flight,

refute the voice that comforts with replies.

The garden will become the grave,

and every past endeavor mocked.

Shouts of triumph mingling bloods,

“Know I am here amid the thrashing at the gates,

You think you are immune. All do.”

Let no one call downstairs, get no reply,

no garden is a grave and none be well till all is won.