I fall from clouds in violent streaks, yet live in walls where silence speaks. Wild, I burn; controlled, I serve, the same force, bound and observed.

I'm ordinary and unremarkable everywhere, except on the battlefield

Three: Pitch to a pit, downtrodden to tire Three more: Simply said, modest kin to acquire Intended recipient, lives under fire

I raise my owner's standards, whatever they may be. When people face me they oft salute, but it's never quite for me.

Irving Stone paired it with agony in a biographical novel about Michelangelo. It is a drug you might find at a rave. What a devoted fan feels when their team wins the championship.