Here, a piece of innocence, found under your bed (amongst the dust);
a fragment of memory to strike a guilty chord.
Below some moldering socks are portions of friendship, rotting unseen;
silently awaiting rediscovery.
Upon a desk, under papers, is a trace of hope, lost in the shuffle
If we take you apart, unzip your skin,
unlock your chest and look inside,
what will we find?
Blocks of ice to replace your heart, perhaps?
Or maybe instead of a conscience, there will be an empty safe.
You see; a human is made up thus:
Love and hate in equal fraction; evil & good in uneven helpings;
friendship and amnesty served in alternating sequence.
Selfishness with greed adds a bit of flavor, loneliness sours the taste just enough.
Heres a piece of innocence, found under your bed amongst the dust
a fragment of a long-forgotten past
to strike a guilty chord