Gray Wriste
Here you stand: upon a page,
Spill your hearts and minds;
A shame you spilt your blood --
I am your orphaned son
Knocking on your silent gates.
Across three thousand leagues
Of dancing, thrilling images
Your faded photographic smiles
Hint at what is magic, still.
Whisper of your dreams;
Your sold for sweets,
Warning not to follow.
I yet watch and struggle
To rebirth
Avowed.
