At every turn of the sun,
Cascading over pavement and painted lines,
There sits at a lonely sidewalk bench,
A little boy
On the edge of innocence.
His clothes are earthy,
Giving precedence to ice cold eyes.
And a heart
Of a complex guise.
These eyes give way
To those that pass him by,
No second glance
To meet them,
No second chance.
To greet them,
But not yet.
This boy isn't like the rest,
He doesn't rise when called,
He moves with his own crest.
A crest in the crowd,
Where he sits and stares,
A blur of souls passing him by.
Till one of them falls,
Glowing hot red,
And his crest calls,
Reverberating off the walls,
To come and gather the dead.
So heed the warning
Of the one that stops,
And tips.
The sight of a mortal
Gazing into the ice cold eyes,
Of death.