Innocence sleeps next to me,
curled in a ball.
Tiny, tucked up breathing.
Miniature earthquakes vibrate against my leg.
Tremors of contentment.
A small, wet nose dampens my hand,
my wary hand.
My cautious, trembling hand.
For innocence should not be woken.
Innocence is a killer.
Innocence hides sheathed knives
and is lightening fast.
But for now Innocence sleeps,
a ball of curled contentment.
Innocence is bliss.