Que sera sera

Damp dew-drops on  
bowing stems of grass,  
gracefully pushed into departure.
Counting stars with the lost ones.  
They are the chosen,  
vilified by veracity.  
   
Enthused into action  
by tethers being burned out.  
A soul eventually
exhausted of survival,  
calls their names on a last breath.
The lost hoard the harmful.
  
   
Que sera sera,    
whatever will be will be.  
The future draws out its claws,  
Que sera sera.  
What will be will be.  
   
They replace it with the wind,   
that weaves through the foliage  
in snow seasons.  
With the exhales of the ocean,    
and the unspoken sound of  
beating stilled.  
Intolerance and
discrimination fight crime;
chaining the different to the past.  
   
Joined in sacred matrimony  
with wrecked stanzas of protests  
rolling off their shoulders.  
Calligraphy swirls of blood  
carved on old ground,  
generation after generation    
retrace them. Somewhere over the  
rainbow (way up high)  
is a land of the laughing dead,    
beautifully cataleptic.  
   
Que sera sera,  
whatever will be will be.  
The future draws out its claws,  
Que sera sera.    
what will be will be.