Night, sweet day, dusk brings dawn
A writer, what else can he do better
Than to be swayed, completely drawn
He writes of love, life, death,
Last chances and first breaths
He rhymes, doesn’t, dreams and writes about it

Nights are cold and hungry
For day to warm and hold it, make up for it
Hate burns deep inside many among him
Love seems to refuse to come near, in range even
Blood indulges him with its presence
Death wants to be his best of friends
And still he writes

What does he see?
Many hate to stop asking him this
What does he that they don’t?
Just another thing they ‘have’ to know
Not a need, but a selfish want
But he will never say to them
For still he writes

He builds up an imperial dream of his own
A castle wall to his pain inside
A moat bridge to the emotions that collide
Pulled up from humanity, society, prosperity, poverty
He writes of so many, all too many things
Not too canny on speaking of or sharing it
So they call it the book of secrets
The one he continues to write

One day the boy reveals himself
To the world of selfish insanity, mortality
The Book of Secrets
That is what they choose to call it
But it does not exist if the boy does not write it
The selfish world is humanity
The book is love, the castle is his first
And this is his happy ending