I am the waif that howls through the night, who whispers at windows where families pray. I search for a home as I travel afar on silver, sticky spider webs spun from my hands. Like the stories you read of Peter Pan, the child who never grows up, I listen and yearn for the distant day when I no longer roam like a ghost; when at last I find a home and this dream is laid to rest.
I've hidden from eyes, a child of the night, to seek for pieces of spirit lost among men. These I carry to my distant home to nurture my sibling who waits there. In physical bodies where adventure has died, I seize that which you have no value for. For withered it may be in the hearts of men, but it keeps my brother alive. Five years old am I, but older I feel. Why can our parents no longer see? What made them turn away? No Christmas tree have I, just the stars in the sky waiting for my present of peace to arrive.