The white lines are tracers for the facers of the aftermath
Positioned in the situation, lost in battles of love
Not learning, not returning, unborn, unhatched
Yet, but wait: it's time to collide, decide, if you will
A purpose for the marchers in orange
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