Innocent eyes look, hoping, for reasons to grow,
toward eyes, well-worn, with too much they know
there in each blink, each sideways glance,
made in understanding, not merely by chance,
as they watch fresh young eyes absorbing each fact,
wishing young innocence could stay intact.
Innocence’ grave is built stone by stone
as, fact upon fact, young eyes claim and then own
the truth that lies waiting, as the truth slips away
into old eyes of knowing the price they must pay
to understand the wonders of innocence lost,
and mourn for the miracle knowing has cost.