clocks that never resurrected

Will we be an abandoned generation,
with free cycling rose stems, denoting the color
of posing stellar rainforests or could we be like a falcon
that suddenly rises in the wind, finding a new love,
a truer love, one that makes you too distracted
to think or read or eat or casually dismiss any offense

music that aches in the center of your mind
from the same place that migraines grow
and if some of us are fortunate we will inherit
and will grow tired to death from the stone tumor,
the warm spot along the floor where wires short
and our minds knock out the lights for four blocks

but others will never know the generational heartache
that follows contempt like a cold shoulder to the poor
and the dictates to the slow rowing stems of power,
seed money for the stunted musician that held corners,
rows, and people in push-down factories, clocks
that never resurrected with the migrating time of day