The tortured boy, white town.

Didn’t matter his name.

Running, for worst,

Survived the bullet rain.

Grey grew poor boys’ eyes.

For his body would soon join white.

Shivering in terror, monsters much bigger.

Ate the survivors’ soul up.

He would survive but at his demise,

Would he reflect his years lost.

Wise old men all agree,

Never trust a survivor till you know how they survived.

Walking instead of running, a new scene shows,

Dodging the biggest bullet. He knows.

Knowing love now, with time a limit.

This boy was to die at fifteen.