The Innocents at Home

Like a newborn child,
I am unscathed by truth.
No wounds from the womb,
left to determine if I am elect.

Lost to be saved.
Born only once in this place.
Ignorant of the fact
that I don’t know how.

So I can do but cannot see.
To know how it hurts
on broken parodies.

Never coming forward and
never falling back on you.
Down on the floor because
there’s further I can go.

Playing ambiguity over me on me.

And if I were to stutter over dashes
stretched out on disjointed trains,
would you return to presumptuous
contrasts shadowing my gangly form?

Or, would you proceed ahead,
marking twain for me;
stripping down causality to
see that we too are
destined to be saved?