The white line of tracers
For the facers of the aftermath
Positioned in the situation
Lost in battles of love
Not learning not returning
Unborn unhatched
Yeah but wait
It`s time to collide
To decide, if you will
A purpose for the marchers in orange
Still circus for the children in disguise
Throwing bones to the drug-sniffing dogs
Projecting what we`ve come to know as ours
For the colors we wear in our dreams
For the flags we fly in our films