All us children of the Millennial
awaiting an omen,
seeking out the last augury,
weaving among the boomers
who present us with a forgery.
Stay strong, my children!
We are the last missionaries,
the last lost lovers,
are the rarest breed indeed,
above us a genuine gospel hovers.
Stay authentic, my friends!
Set out with unmatched veracity,
imperfection glistens these days but,
we see through the deceiving fog with rectitude,
we refuse to be mislead.
Steer the course, my children!
These maps made for us yield no
sensible shape or design when traced,
we forge our own compass.
Forgetting north south east west,
undulating inwards with a steady pace.
"We are the lovers, we are the last of our kind, so hold my hand and keep your chin up and I swear we'll be just fine."
We desire no recompense, only truth.
On sour soiled presidential soliloquies we muster strength again and again to chew, repeatedly breaking a tooth.
With roots above and branches below,
we capture our affections in nature's photo booth
but,
furrow our brows in a sordid mirror reflection.
Stay clean, my sweet princes!
Dart ahead to meet me and my words I will not mince.
Hold steadfast to the healing hope hovering above our masts,
steer this ship with steady hands,
fear not the undertow.
A voyage which is long and treacherous,
but this is no ship of floating fools.
Be proud, my children!
We have sailed successfully into the millennium,
leaving in our wake the outdated value systems of the past.
We are the strong
We are the brave
We are the lovers
The last of our kind