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February 9, 2015
The soft touch of petite fingertips.
Its brown eyes wide open to the fresh world.
The soft presence of sweet silence that floated in the room like pale clouds that didn't need to be announced.
Its toes crinkling at the slight touch of a hand.
The harden touch of coursed fingertips.
Its brown eyes closed to the demean world.
The daunting presence of utter silence that dragged itself into the room like a corpse coming up from its grave.
Its toes cringing at the subtle touch of innocence.
© Marina S., Vineyard Haven, MA
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This poem is about the lost if innoncence.