In a sense
Innocence
With its intense ineptness
Gifts isness with indecision
The victim of its intention
Admits it’s complicit
In its disillusionment
Which runs amiss with its
Intrepid sentience
In a sense
Innocence
Isn’t victimless
In its illicit inaction
Of the present tense
Which can’t catch up with itself
I would swear I weren’t a victim
If it didn’t feel like hell