by Sage
January 17th, 1998

Two little children, an innocent lie,
A Mother and Father would rather die.
Leaving their burden upon his head,
Leaving him and his sister, as good as dead.

*They* were not long stepping in,
So little, so fragile, such a sin.
He had talents to live and learn of their way,
But his poor little his sister would never see the light of day...

So today, her birthday, he looks at the blond,
Wondering why he has become so fond,
Looks at his 'sister', the one who is always there,
That was the first night he slept, not a fear of nightmare.

Sage