Born one day was a baby, birthed to moonlit night;
raised alone in riverside home, garnering skills to
fight. Food passed through a massive gate, for no escape
from solid fate. Soldier child could soon harvest, fish
river banks bequest. Still alone yet weapons carried,
taught to read through pictures scary. Learned the ways
of social grace, win the war for pride and place. Only path
to take for us, for not enough to share and just. Crafty
adolescent scheme, through the gate he one day dreamed.
Underneath did tunnel go, other side a wonder trove. Yet
to fight was learned to rote, so sleeping bodies sword he
Smote. Not until the deed was done, was it found the childhood
ton. These were those who made the books, from where he learned
his fishing hooks. All he knew was how to fight, lonely child in
always night. Now around he saw his fate, destroyer of the ones
who made him hate. Sadness filled confusion stained, cry tears
that mix with rain. For a decade worlds he roamed, swordless and
sleeping on stone. Cartographic finger prints, learning all the peoples'
plinth. Rewriting childhood picture books, finding life among all nooks.
Loving all seemed only calling, after troubled kinship falling. Those
alone now have a guide, gently brushed in bona fide.
Roman Ryan 