Babes in the Wood

These children,
they walk a vacant melody
and one could assume
the mask they wear is indifference.

We vainly stretch our own repercussions
to cover their skin
as if it were ours
to protect.

As if our stiff and rusted armor
would fit them,
if they would only try it on.

They grow here,
in spite of our blatant disregard.
We garden in a vacuum
yet still they blossom and bloom.

These foibles dressed in perfumed contempt
stand by the mirror,
poised,
a fine velvet soliloquy to solitude.

They are false diamonds
that could wake a summer storm
and force it to toss new seed to the wind.

The eye of the hurricane
appears at first, complacent, peaceful and at rest.

These children are not fooled.
As if fresh and unscathed were any way to really live...

As if...