They are captives to cynicism,
Slaves to the bitterness of experience.
Longing for the innocence that was once theirs
And loathing the innocence of others;
Happiness they now call naivety,
Love, a misunderstanding.
Removing their clothes like tired old excuses
They slip into a freshly made bed
And surrender themselves to the inevitable
With a sigh
Only to find the bedsheets are made from linen
And love sometimes lurks between them.
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