Stained glass tears, the faces peer through

a window of time, and hours pass

as the scenes play over, and then

repeat.

Little soldiers, we marched off to bed

proud, yet afraid

of yesterdays and next years.

We knew someday we’d find it,

but I haven’t yet.

Can I close my eyes and retreat

into a world of unicorns and iridescent skies?

And what will I be when time comes to return?

Since,

the faces never changed

(they only grew older)

and the words hurt most of all.