How to Get Home

i cannot hear the youngest angels singing

their voices too high pitched, perhaps

or maybe they are playing at the edge

at the edge of the clouds

away from the crowds

i cannot see their little hands clapping

their reach is so short, perhaps

or maybe they are playing at the edge

at the edge of the clouds

away from the crowds

they came to be 

after they were, you see

they came to dreams

like birds made of music

like your last memories

of how to get home

like your last memories

of how to get home

how to get home

i cannot touch their tousled heads running

their legs carry them too fast, perhaps

maybe they are already past the edge

past the edge of the clouds

away from the crowds

i cannot hold their little lives living

their days are gone, perhaps

they are already past the edge

past the edge of the clouds

away from the crowds

away from the crowds

they came to be 

after they were, you see

they came to dreams

like birds made of music

like your last memories

of how to get home

like your last memories

of how to get home

how to get home

(for the children of Sandy Hook)