Where Every Scroll is a New Adventure
"Spikes and Shadows"
He laced his boots with threads of spite,
A rebel heart, a flickering light,
Mohawk sharp, dyed crimson red,
Echoes of rage inside his head.
Leather jacket, patched and torn,
Symbols stitched of nights forlorn,
Chains that clattered, boots that stomped,
Through empty streets where shadows romped.
His mother wept, his father roared,
"This isn't you—you're something more!"
But "more" was chains, and "more" was loud,
A voice that shattered every crowd.
"You're lost," they said. "You'll fade away."
But fading wasn't punk rock's way.
So with a snarl and fists held tight,
He vanished deep into the night.
City lights like jagged scars,
Graffiti hymns, and broken bars,
Friends with names like Ghost and Snipe,
Living lives carved out of hype.
Yet in the echo of each show,
A shadow whispered soft and low—
Not from the crowd, not from the stage,
But stitched between his stitched-up rage.
The echoes grew, as echoes do,
“What’s freedom if it’s haunting you?”
No answers came, just static buzz,
A question left for who he was.
Years rolled on, and posters peeled,
The vinyl scratched, the anger healed.
But in his chest, beneath the ink,
A softer beat began to think.
One winter dawn, with breath like smoke,
He penned a letter, words bespoke:
"I left to find what I could be—
But lost myself to feel free."
No home he had, yet home he found,
In ink, in scars, in silent sound.
A punk, a son, a soul unbound,
Spikes and shadows, safe and proud.