Innocents.

A bike. A picture book. A bear. A doll.
Piled with the rubble and the rubbish. Coated in dirt, and dust, and blood and tears.
This is the evidence of the innocents.

A blanket. A music box. Coloured pencils and a ball.
Trampled into the mud, tossed aside and forgotten.
This is the evidence of the innocents.

Bikes and books and balls do not pick sides. They have no allegiance. They are merely objects, proof of a life once lived. But they hold memories, and feelings. They tell the story of the innocents.

Look at that bear. I had one just like it. So did you. So did they. Bears do not pick sides but are the confidantes and protectors of scared little souls.

Look at these things. Dirty and stained though they are they tell the story of laughter, love and fun. They tell the stories of picnics in the sunlight and stories in the dark, of scraped knees and bruised elbows, of hope and love. They tell the stories of the innocents.

They tell the stories of fear, and loss, and pain and sorrow. They tell of feelings that overwhelm but are not fully understood. They tell the stories of those who are losing their innocence. They tell the stories of those who have had everything torn from them with no understanding of why or how. They tell stories of lost homes and shattered dreams, of nightmares and hungry stomachs.

They tell the stories of the innocents.