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