As the desperate dashes of dismay
fumble between now and never;
the missing echo of children at play
predict the dwindling bonds that will sever.
Four years is a tiny taste of time,
peppered with doom and despair.
Even though these words still rhyme,
in the end no one will care.
Bundles of tiny tubes set apart,
Portrayed within a mosaic of strife;
we have failed without our heart.
A bee’s eye distinguishes pieces of life.