On the Issue of Life

If life be made of smoke,
Then in every breath will like
The very virtues of the mind,
Fashioned no more than in a deadly white

What is made in the air,
Exists not in words or forms,
But rather, makes clear itself,
In the breath in which is born

So carried away the sense
Of validation and existence,
That in immaterial things,
Finds most its solid substance

And if the living
Can be transformed visible to the eye,
Though may be killing, ask though
What more can the soul be satisfied?