innocence

In the dew-kissed meadows of youth, 
where laughter bloomed like wildflowers, 
we danced with dragonflies, 
our hearts unburdened by the world’s sorrows.

The sun painted our skin with innocence, 
and we believed in magic— 
the kind that whispered secrets through rustling leaves.

But time, that relentless weaver, 
wove threads of disillusionment. 
Our eyes widened as we glimpsed the underbelly of existence: 
the flax-dam where tadpoles wriggled, 
innocent as our own reflections, 
until they metamorphosed into frogs— 
their croaks a dissonant chord.

We clung to memories like brittle leaves, 
pressed between pages of longing. 
The apple tree, once our sanctuary, 
bore fruit both sweet and bitter. 
Its branches sagged under the weight of knowledge— 
the taste of Eden lost. 
And the moon, our silent confidante, 
dimmed as we unraveled.

The carousel of days spun faster, 
its painted horses chipped and worn. 
We rode toward adulthood, 
our laughter fading like echoes in empty courtyards. 
The innocence we wore like a cloak grew threadbare, 
revealing scars. 
We learned that fairy tales had thorns, 
and stars could fall from grace.

Now, as shadows lengthen, 
we gather here— 
the lost children. 
Our eyes, once mirrors of wonder, 
reflect fractured constellations. 
We mourn the fading echoes of innocence,
 yet carry them within, 
like fragile seashells— 
each whisper a prayer for what was.