Only then were they innocent
in their revelations to each other
like the call of crickets in the night
under a starry sky,

Only then did they not realize that
twinkling stars held more promises
in their connect-the-dots game of
the ****** and the Crab,

Only then were they prisoners
in their ignorance at playing the fools,
as if puppets in a circus show
to enlighten depraved hearts

Only now do they see the wound,
a deep dark-red spilled and
slowly spreading on the ****** paper
an Œuvre d'Art produced
by an imp’s capable hand.

It’s in the glance,
calm and dark,
In the cadence of the steps
In the rise of the chest,
And in its quiet descent.

It’s the bubbling of a laughter
In a hopeful seeker,
A desperate witness
To a corrupted innocence.

It’s in the silver threads
On a young boy’s head,
A presage to the wise mind
Of a young man.

It’s in a longing smile
A beckoning eye,
The confidence in each stride,
It's in the rise and fall of
My head against his chest.