Late last night at rest with my mate   I'm visited by a victim of hate   A spectoral group, yet they're one and the same   They would never live   Nor would they have a name   A baby too young to walk or to talk   Rocked to sleep with a big, heavy rock   Becomes a tot with a baleful glare   Sucked from life by a shortage of air      A child beyond time without gender   Metamorphing to surrender   Each shape for one older and still   No end to how each could be killed      By chance in the polyverse i'm all of these   Each to fall prey with unnerving ease   To who knows which ambiguous marasmus   It asked at once knowing   And unknowing the answers      To things far removed from my experience   Or need to know and thus it thanked me   For sparing it death's multiplicitous masques   And life's thankless laborious tasks      January, child born alas   February, still still frail as glass   March through a formative period you must   April child, in god, distrusts   May comes and goes and shortlived is the hope   June is the halfway mark of your rope   July child fears end of time   August child in slow decline   September, sense starts to fail   October's child, the burden ails   November's child malingers on   December's child is dead and gone