Riddle Seven

Riddle Seven

In the land where secrets sleep,

Bohemian shadows run dark and deep.

A grove of whispers, a silent rite,

San Francisco's secret, hidden from sight.

There's a line that bends, a track gone wrong,

A whistle wails a prison song.

But this is no cell of bars and stone—

It's a different cage, unknown, alone.

Blind are those who cannot see,

Themselves, or others, lost to be.

So they might fly, or so they're told,

Trading warmth for a heart gone cold.

A new kind of torture, frozen and numb,

Like white walkers lost, their senses undone.

Living as ghosts, with hope denied,

No help in the street, just souls that hide.