A tender, sweet and vibrant fire
Burns atop this darkened spire.
He looks up, to be deftly led
And stroked upon his golden head.

He smiles; it is his one delight
To stare into this face of night.
But peering into silver eyes
He sees nothing but his own reprise.

For this one who stands before him tall
Who can make him cry, make him crawl
Is damaged, and not fully whole
There is a snare within his soul.

A dark black spot inside him deep
Will forever his affections keep.
But the younger one who loves him so
Does not protest

He doesn't know.