To you my mystery poet,
I call to thee,
In hopes to return,
What you've given me.

A name I ask,
And hope to receive,
This little game,
I dare not deceive.

But what you may think,
Is not always the same,
Or what really lurks,
Beneath each surface.

Lies unfold,
Stories told,
Life as we know,
No longer a choice.

Each one aligned,
In a never ending line,
A cycle of old,
And a stereotype of new.

I beg and plead of thee,
Reveal just this small bit,
For I long to stand,
Face to face.

Be my guide,
I ask of thee,
Do not flee,
Nor fear and hide.

Penned by my hand on the 22nd of Ultio, in the year 502 AD.