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...