by Ryan Athorn

Created on: September 23, 2011

Naïveté

Crawling out the darkest hole,
A place that once you knew as home,
When you were left out in the cold,
By those whom you had once consoled,

Wrapping rags round bleeding knees,
You search for possibilities,
Pray for paper falling breeze,
As you have nil, for heinous thieves,

Hands are pricked, littered with sticks,
From all the firewood you’ve picked,

Sitting by the fire to think,
Of all the wounds, you have to lick,

Calm your self, poor troubled child,
Release your self from troubled times,
Calamity has tried and tried,
But you’re still here, you’re still alive,

Familiar voice was deep and thick,
But you thought it a skewed lyric,
And twisted, venomous, malefic,
You paid no mind – dismissed the ‘trick’,

Naïveté, to pay no heed,
Laid no claim to words he’d breathe,
You closed your eyes, when you could see,
And bound your hands, when you were free,

You crawled out of the darkest hole,
A place that you had made your home,
Strapped the rags around your knees,
And pushed away the petty thieves,
Your hands came scarred from all the sticks,
From the campfire you had lit,
You heard a man, who; just like you,
Wants to stop the world turn blue,
But you stood up and spat your scorn,
And shook the man, and left him torn,
Naïveté, to pay no heed,
You laid no claim to being freed,

Crawl back in the darkest hole,
And once again call it your home,
In that place you’ll never grow,
But it’s the only place you'll know.

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