These are the children of love.
They burn like a swarming inferno,
Tending flowers of passion, of loss.
Born just to fade.
They are beautiful as spun glass,
Clockwork concoctions.
In an instant they’ll be here,
In the next they’ll be shattered.
They are all just children of love,
Living in the Kinderfield.
They wait to be picked up,
Knowing it’s often for not.