Secluse Poem by Arik Fletcher

His fangs have slowly dulled with age,
His wings have long been cut,
Yet still he feels the ancient rage,
From when the gates were shut.

He thinks back on the happy times,
Still dreams of better days,
The cool breeze of those lofty climbs,
Before this bitter haze.

His mind awash with memories,
The pain beyond compare,
His face a mask of pleasantries,
The truth so few could bear.

He prays each night to start anew,
Still hopes for something more,
To end the torment he's been through,
So that his soul can soar.