Loss of Innocence

Grasping aimlessly
For the lost wounded child
That makes her home in my heart.

I often cry for this child
For she is inconsolably lonely
Or more likely dead,
As she is the last of her kind.

In the past these children ran abundant;
They played vivaciously, sang loudly
In the crook of my smile
In the twinkle of my gaze,
But were shot down one by one
By a massacre of reality.
The bullets came slowly at first,
Then hailed against my beating chest
In quick succession.

After my soul was infiltrated--
I see the world for what it is now.
I have but one lost child to protect me
From the wrath of what is real.
I see everything for what it is
That the world is innately selfish
But as long as my tears fall,
The shivering little girl will find shelter
In my everbeating heart,
She will refuse to see me harden.

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