Hill Of Glory:

The ring echoed into the spacious house,
I ran to the door with a hurry,
Yet when I opened the great big door,
I let out a huge fury,

The sight was invalid,
Not a soul was perched on the doorstep,
But there was a tiny ant marching away,
And slowly did it crept,

I slowly closed the big door,
And as it slammed shut,
It was caught on a string,
Beating against a solid rut,

As the rut was beaten down,
Not a smidgen was seen,
I walked on inside without a thought,
As I thought my intensions were clean,

The rut was dead,
Beaten to the pulp,
Yet I didn't seem to care much,
As I savored my lasting gulp,

The cold air crept in,
Alongside with the ant,
The air brushed up against my hair,
As the ant crawled onto my pants,

The air made it lose it's way,
Every turn was suicidal,
It took left then a right,
Yet the way was only sidle,

It slowed to a stop,
Waiting until the cool wind would stop,
Yet it washed the any up,
The evidence was taken with a mop,

My fury was dismayed,
My nerves had subsided,
Yet the cool air was close behind,
In which it had collided,

The cool morning was young,
But the frost bitten air did it's toll,
So I bite my raspy tongue,
And awaited the day I could be again be whole.