I spy, with my little eye,
The darkest dark, of midnight sky.

Tumbling clouds of silver and gray,
Blowing out their nightly spray.

The tick and tock of the grandfather clock,
Sounds far from the dock.

One can hear the scurrying of a mouse,
For the great boom of the thunder has sound.

Tucked in the corner, of a cozy place,
Rests the soul of a child, so innocent in its grace.

The home is blocked from the thunder and sea,
And a wood fire burns in its grate merrily.

The child is warm, safe and unhindered,
Held to its mothers breast, so soft and tender.

If only innocence could be kept.
If only the world could stay away.

(-Sadly, Innocence seems to fade away. That's the point of this poem,
Innocence just doesn't last in this world any longer-)
 
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