without focus, without generation, without peer...come whither winters too often seen...felt in devotion, willing in it's uncertainty...cry aloud yes! children to a child...a crown glorious for seeing and naysing, soothsaying into prophecy in measured mercury time...this is our moment, our world, this is our church, our children, our dominion as yet undisclosed, as yet unclaimed...the universe is ours reduced to tiny portraiture...with love and fire and desire and innocence to reckon judgement upon us all...in this duality until we are truly free...this role cast and agreed upon, the child took it's hand...to know no other except in one's heart is to walk forward into oblivion...raised from sleep to be beaten, moved to non-tears from an implied violence that hung in the air at all hours...these terrors and troubles will make you he was told but somehow they continue to break him...a smile is always the great eraser, and the dreams of those future smiles and miles allowed a secret garden to grow,however sad true it all became...it never was you can say, but it was...and it never will be they can say, but it will...something always gets lost along the way...in translation, in memory, in vision, but that is just how it is...so to peer strong into the faces one must see their own face, to wonder reflection and not judge, but this too is impossible...for the accused will one day stand as the accuser...the cord snakes between the legs, one fist raised in power, the other fist raised in solidarity, this is the universal vision of the movement...I used to be a little boy so old in my shoes...for every face slap that imprinted itself as tattoo under my skin, every indignity that scarred itself upon my broken heart, walks with me as ghost and conscience...a boy, a zero, a hero, a goat, a ghost frozen glass, broken, this is all you need to know...the codex every moment in this war without end, the attrition constant, but the victories oh so sweet and pure...in this we drink from mountain springs and let the grand old sun soak us old...to curse one's very existence is a kind of power, especially if you can decide to make the best of that hate, to fuel that anger with the necessity of resignation and purpose...to cloak your pain and fear in the language of sound, the poetry of devotion...a child draws the perfect house with the perfect parents and the perfect hot rod car and the perfect dog, unwittingly signing into a contract bound to be broken...the choices came before all he believed, but somehow the fuzzy glow of intuition didn't seem to cover the tracks of this particular beast...glass disintegrates it all for your entertainment, his purpose to be the atom bomb unsustained and smiling that perfect smile...from the first cord came shiver and from the last cord will come peace...it is a game to be played viciously, so change the names and make up a few new verbs and there you go...this child was struck and a decision made to never never cry again...in this stupid land of the frozen ideal, WHO AND WHERE ARE THEY NOW?? the wooden idols of persecution in the glory of helpless and unending resurrection...who will be there upon your