Dear sweet innocence,
how the cogs of your mechanics have spun in such variation, as to create something different entirely.

How cruel evolution can be to mock the skies with flightless birds,
perhaps there was a time that children were born, already equipped with the love that not all mothers can bare.

How whiskey has soiled your oh-so-honest intentions,
as before it did stress from work, or your father, or your self diagnosed depression, and on occasion myself.

Should the plastic visibly come away from your wires, or your song come out an obvious cry,
I would be quick to disregard it as pantomime, though inside I pray that a demon is pulling your strings.

At times I even think fondly of the thirty-two by sixteen plot bought at a discounted price,
where I shall lie by you for the first time

But to admit that you are ill is to admit you are not at fault,
and I am not ready to forgive you.


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