This is the first poem I turned into the poetry workshop I'm taking right now. It was vaguely designed to be an inaugural poem for Obama but it doesn't have to be read that way. Take it in the context of someone with very little power speaking to someone with an enormous deal of power.

Our Swords

If we were to slip
On our own swords
Will you be waiting

If we were to dive
In our empty pool
Will you be ten feet under

If we thrash and grope
And choke on our voices
Will you spin me savior

When our dreams turn sour
For the misty moon
Will you too be asleep

Caught in the funnel
Of the buildings you lay
Will you be flying alone

What colors will spring
From the beaming omnibus
the three-ring circus
We call you and I

If you were to help us
If we were to fall
Will we tell the difference