The white line of tracers

For the facers of the aftermath

Positioned in the situation

Lost in battles of love

Not learning not returning

Unborn unhatched

Yeah but wait

It's time to collide

To decide, if you will

A purpose for the marchers in orange

Still circus for the children in disguise

Throwing bones to the drug-sniffing dogs

Projecting what we've come to know as ours

For the colors we wear in our dreams

For the flags we fly in our films