I wrote this at night, and it's kind of a poem, but not the flow. I know I used lots of strange metaphors, but it was my intention to make it that way. Any ways - here it is:

We all Fall down

We would tilt, sway - and -

We would fall in slow motion, at first, and see the beautiful stars and the craggy stone in the few heartbeats that time had frozen. And then, as the wingbeats of glass angels rippled through the passageway of memory, the world would flash by in a lightning strike of colour.

Green trees - white snow - red blood.

Pebbles would clatter down the slope, showering us in grit, and the pines would blot out the sky...

The ridged ice would blister our bare arms with frost. The wind - screaming in fury - would whip our hair into our faces until all we would see is a wilderness of bronze and ash.

Rocks grating, chaffing; blood thick and iron-hot in our mouths; pain beyond feeling as we collide with the earth. And then - a blanket of snow silence would flutter down over ours ears - we would be still.

The stillness would be worse than the falling; just an empty void where the crucifix would crush our chest and send our breath into a spiral of oblivion. And yet we would not be dead.

Still, unmoving we would be, yet somewhere - as fragile as the fluttering of a new moth's wings - our hearts would beat.

We would watch as the ice sank beneath charcoal waves. We would stare up at the enigmatic trails of blood poured from us as we fell. And we would lie on our backs, with arms and hair in the water, and wait for energy to arise from the earth.