by Nick Gisburne
I blame myself for what you have become,
The introvert, the unassuming soul,
A mystery, a flower of the slum,
A child too quick, too clever to control.
I felt no fear, no worry. Why? Who would?
I saw, I see, the sweetness of a child,
A gifted mind I barely understood,
Impatient, unpredictable, and wild.
I never knew the nature of your gift,
Until you let me look on it, too late.
The change was subtle, sinister, and swift,
Your spirit black with bitterness and hate.
A quarter of your classmates, so they said,
Were found, together, drugged, dismembered, dead.
