Stained like a tea-pressed letter
Reminiscence, the enemy
Mould appears
Guided by the wrong sort of hand
And left blowing unattended

I wish I could erase this
darkness
Acceptance of a sort is present
But loss of a scrap of innocence is mourned
Grieved
No, it is yet undetermined if it has been lost

Naivety. It's scent l-
ingers
Broken, floating between two planets
This dirt though, is stuff-
(ocating)
               me!