The lines were rote, received as writ.
When we were kids, we treasured it:
how right from wrong
could goodly shine.
How just could cleave the world so fine!
How black and white divide the day.
How bright the line
made sense in play.
How fair, that we
could see it plain.
Now we've grown up.
It's just the same.
Since all between the lines we find
all shades of gray look white or black
depending on the light we play.
Obliterate! Or turn one's back.
Avert both eyes, and call it gone.
So that's a wrap. For every dark is
just a dawn, eventually you'll see
how long.
There's no shade too complex
to see it all the way, or not at all.
Our innocence will never lack.
We've all gone home. We had to
take our ball.
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