We Never Saw the Rainbow

When our generation was born,
We were given a box of crayons
And sternly instructed
To create any picture
We could imagine.

So we opened the box
To gaze at its glorious colors,
But when we peered inside
The crayons were almost gone.
Broken, worn, discarded, and destroyed,
They spoke nothing to our artists' hearts
But death.

Commanded by our fathers,
Enchained by their legacies,
We gathered the fragmented pieces,
Brought together our hands,
And wrote a note:

It told the end of our lives.

The fragile and fragmented pieces
Cramped and collapsed
Under weight of
Our heavy hearts and hands,
Which slowly succumbed to
Disease and decay --
As we watched our colors diminish
And die.

But we pressed on.

Starving, sweating, and crying,
We wrote until our end was written,
And collapsed
On bloody hands and broken knees.
And we cried to God --
That his next child might heed
Our epitaph.