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.