The Boy

Short, Dark, To The Point.

The guttering candle lit the cold stone room,

The eerie silence of an ancient tomb,

In the unreached corners where shadow reined;

Lay a small, young boy in rags and chains.

With a jolt he sat up and screamed a scream,

That could wake a deaf man from his dream.

The scream not high, nor was it low,

Don’t love this boy, for he’s our John Doe.