The Middle Children

Be it that I am doomed to walk the Earth In fear of time - measured in mere fractions; Starlight grants me comfort with twinkling mirth, Lost in wakes of dread deeper than oceans. I'd ask what it means to live over time, of paupers; preachers; aristocrats, too - why lives are measured in short centuries. For stars, it is nothing if not untrue. A middle child with no hope to call mine; with stately manners, I protest, "I'm fine, doomed to be but shadows and memories." Stardust divines our eager fingerprints imbued on the walls of our history: generations defined by reticence and willful blindness to its mystery. I'd ask what it means to swallow my fears, of gods and kings and legends in their prime, to carve in my heart courage that's blinding - Like stars whose light shines long after their time. O' Father I'll pray the rest of my years through the funeral rites and birthday cheers, "Grant me the stars when life stops rewinding." With tired devotion left in my soul I'll shatter the world to see what I'm worth - memories that used to make me feel whole, buried like innocence lost in childbirth. I'll say what it means to temper my pride to mothers and fathers, both who are lost, Silently waiting till we come of age. It's the ones you bring up that bear the cost. Tell your kids before their eyes open wide; Before their lungs, filled with air, rise like the tide; "Stand and face your mortality with rage!"