Seasons Of Innocence

I despise your Innocence,
with the sorrow one lends,
to the first buds of spring.
With the angst laiden excitement,
of that warm summer green.
With the nastalgia,
that one holds heavy in their heart,
after the last leaf falls.

I despise the winter of your youth,
the dreary knowingness,
that pervades your pearly innocence.
In your eyes, so blue and bold,
I see a whirling of the seasons,
seasons of youth,
and of innocence.

I am not so niavè,
as to say with content,
that I may keep you,
in that warm innocent light,
the one that shrouds you so flawlessly now,
the one that you wear so proud.

In my heart there is a pain so great,
that only your existance,
has been able to create.
It is a pain born,
from the crimson womb of love.

Upon seeing you, my heart grew swollen,
upon holding you, I was consumed,
now my heart lies wishing not to be broken,
by your Innocence so astoundingly pure.

In your presence I despise the world,
for it is a theatre with terrible things.
Lessons that one should never learn,
words only meant to burn,
and each must take a turn,
in this theatre so Grey.

Lifeless apperitions wear the mask of truth,
shouting propaganda only meant to consume,
we are born to be eaten,
what goes up must come down,
O, how I wish you were exempt,
from the terrible things that bereft,
the world of loveliness.