Standing on the edge of what is known,
Of what is pain,
Of what is home.
Wading through the mess of what’s been done,
Of what we’ve lost, of what’s become.
Such a shame- you’re much too young.
Hopeless screams pierce your silence,
Aid in the indecipherable violence.
We’re sailing through this river of red,
All we’ve had- expectantly dead.
They tell you, child, not to cry,
For they wish you’d rather die.
So follow your heart towards all that’s known,
For all that’s dead,
Return to home.