Our k[ID]s

Kids are the markers in the

shifting

sinking

sands of

untimely undress:

of a redress incomplete:

of assessments and angers

and humourless adult:

of the bullies who beef on

the griddles of a

stupid opinion-

[a{te]-

d}

craw-

l:

[idio-

{see]s} nothing:

just views what it wants to

believe and perpetu-

ate, too late to recover a

semblance of human-

IT.

 

But in your charms, all your

charms, all

your graces, not just

Claire nor Guille nor

Elia nor

Gonzas, nor all these peeps

who – still young at

heart –

continue to choose to put hoarse

before

cart, in their desire to shout

to the highest of skylines

the truth about life …

 

… so this then is why

it must be the kids who

rule us over

because it’s the kids who call

it right; because it’s the kids

who have the

least of powers and the

greatest of wisdoms,

night after

night;

because it’s

only the kids who know

how to

save adults from them-

s-

elves; their foolish

magic-

kings and queens:

their PMs

and Lords and

presidents galore,

and the weary warehouses

of political can[‘]t.

 

And elves that you are, and hearts

that you show, and souls that

window your eyes

out of a such deeply

expressed

love of aeons that treasure, and

epochs

and centuries, and

days and delicate

second, remember this

stuff if anything you

may recall:

we are all here for each

other, and for each

we do fall.

 

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