The white lines are tracers for the facers of the aftermath
Positioned in the situation, lost in battles of love
Still yearning—not learning, unborn…unhatched
Yet, but wait! It’s time to collide
To decide, if you will a purpose for the marchers in orange
And still a circus for the children in disguise
Throwing bones to the drug-sniffing dogs
Protecting what we’ve come to know as ours
For the colors we wear in our dreams
For the flags we fly in our films…
