A teen, a dream
A child, so mild
The old, turn cold,
The rest, just guess

The rest are those inbetween,
Not mild, not cold, and without a dream.

They are the free,
They are the proud,
They are those who will stand up,
and scream outloud.

The rest are those with all the power.
Yet all the rest are so fragile, like the most delicate flower.

They are a single fish in the wide, open sea.

Yet, oddly enough,
The rest is us. . .
You and me.


 
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