Here’s to our futures, comes the cry

From a soapbox in the middle of an empty street, where no one is listening, save for the trees 

Yet, the toast continues,

Replaced by this so called new normal

Where nothing is ever really normal, and we will never be those children again

Every time we get close to the olden days

Something sets us back another six months

So raise a glass to the best of us, to the worst of us

To the blessed, the fallen, the survivors

The stepping stones, the breakthroughs, the “what could’ve been’s”,

Oh, what could’ve been

Gone are our school dances, first dates, birthday parties

We missed crucial parts of our childhoods, only to be replaced by

Meltdowns, attempts, and sleepless nights

We toss and turn, wondering when it will all end

When can we get our lives back?

Here’s a toast 

To the generation

Who lost so much.

Perhaps the wind and the wilderness will listen.