IF there were a child,
small and speckled,
like a fallen star,
wrapped in the skin of an angel.

THERE are questions echoed,
bouncing off the walls,
a song in tune to melancholy,
driven by their high pitched naivety.

WERE it to ask me,
about the fullness of the house,
the converse of myself,
the paper thin skin.

A response comes from ether,
it flows from deceit and devilish nature,
I feel the lie fall like outward breath,
so easy, yet growing more burdensome.

CHILD has no name,
for we do not label innocence itself,
it would be insanity,
and I would surely die before...