The Baton

Death comes for us in whispers, Leaking stardust to our eye. A lump of moon stuck deep inside each throat, We wear his night like some great overcoat. Words all left suspended in the air, Comic balloons un-funny; so un-fair. All our storm and agony, Fight and counter-tragedy, Rained down once without relief To break our hope and crack our last belief. All changed with infant birth, New life to newer worlds is hurled. Standing tall upon new souls all rising, Longing for the power of our storm. Imbued with faith so strong to shape a humbled world. Fierceness lending each a breath to join their moment soaring. Young lips pressed sweet against each thought Shared for striving to a common end. Laughter leaning in, with backs against their past, Life with purpose only they defend. See them; hear them; feel them; Know them in their hunger growing Filled with tiny mirrors Showing parts of our reflection. Moving slowly toward a different light. Choosing roads of differing direction, Born with cause to fight a different fight. We are the audience born for their parade, Raising flags by lowering our shade. Acknowledging the passing past, Lending our respect, Jaded jaws to innocent claws, Scraps now fed from living dead, With prayers to protect.