Is innocence some praise
of glorious ignorance?
Can it be touched 
as the down on her leg,
the dewy air at sunrise....
naked each morn
of the smoke,
the dust of toil.
That loss of purity....
We wake ignorant
each pillow sullied
with a soft spot.
Sun beams rot
the semi-sleep,
to arouse
the temptuous beginnings
of another borrowed day.
Onward we march
to bathe the virtuosity
from our awakened souls.
Peering into the mirror,
the chasteness obliterated,
we see the truth in ourselves.
No return to glory...
Only wakefulness.