All Along the Watchtower

All along the watchtower, little babies line the tower curled up in a foetal in the cold. They live motherless as little snowflakes fall. They live fatherless as the wind sweeps, every minute, the weakest cry into a better world. High pitched cries from frail bodies weaken by miles of seconds Passing by. As more fade a multiplicity of babies are dropped off along the watchtower. They're colder and more shivering. No one to feed poor souls! No one to fade their cries No one to give them attention No one who cares No one at all. It simply difficult to feel helpless.