There sometimes comes a time in life, particularly of those who feel they’ve left no mark upon the world and faced with leaving it as such, turn round to even note their footprints washed away behind them. Where spurred by an event, they will react in tune with a new thinking—or rather, an old banner they’ve laid gently down in answer to the natural call of living, raising family, earning to survive and peace of mowing lawns.
Static state of mind is noticed as their comrades fall around them, when the march of battle that has numbed the mind and ears begins to hear the independent footsteps of those soldiers left still on parade. Idealism shines once again within the moist glisten in the eye of passion and one small stand against the mindless acceptance of a wrong is laid out on the field.
Forgotten in the remembrance is the ultimate result and weary bones are half the match despite the wisdom. Taking up the cry we fight for justice, disremembering that the laws are mere man-made, challenged through to change in constant motion. Nevertheless some few of us are strong enough and fierce enough to follow our beliefs, able to withstand the dreadful costs. And some of us are not, and so with less the pain in tearing of scabs healed over than from the bleeding wounds once freshly made, we turn back face forward to the end of story, less burdened too by need to leave more than a stone moved from its place.
Reluctant in the leaving there is no dishonor as in youth. There is no complacency when one can say instead, "Just let it be," and choice not circumstance allows the chance to walk away. The first time around is bitter disillusion. The second, affirmation and redirection once again.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology