The white lines are tracers for the facers of the aftermath



Positioned in the situation, lost in battles of love



Still yearning--not learning, unborn...unhatched



Yet, but wait!  It's time to collide



To decide, if you will a purpose for the marchers in orange



And 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...