Five boys went walking in the woods one day. Five youngsters who had lost their way, yet they knew the path was true despite the wind and frost, for though they knew the way, these boys were lost.
In number they were five, and of ages varied somewhat. Two were but fourteen and one was less than that. Of the two that remain, each one gained a year in turn, but it wasn't time alone that for these Lost Boys did burn.
You see, plots abound against them, to rip them from their skins, to poke and prod their insides on scientific whims. And to this they are warned and there natures' given tame, they call themselves each by an animal insired name.
The youngest one was wiley and canny as a Kat. Samuel was his birthname and he was far from fat. His childhood nature lay before him, open, happy and serene. His senses switched to catfoot, cat-eyes and cat clever, all unseen.
Of the fourteenth year comes Joshua, upon his trusty steed. His bicycle he rode too fast in his quest for speed. An unforseen incident hath catalyzed his plight, and with hawken air he seeks his own path to golden flight.
Our sportster comes along then next, upon the fifteenth age, a sheet of ice, a pair of skates his passion and his stage. His father named him Kyle and thus he is known by all, and his fame is spread even though he bides his time to escape as a raccon on a wall.
The lone wolf comes, his name is Tom, an honorable fellow, he. His dreams of late have filled with hate and deep melancholy. He fears the night, for in its damp and dreary windy air, what he stalks and hunts and wakes to find he can not remember who or where.
Again to the lesser age of ten and four our assembled group does come. To sly Andrew, the gentle fox, the wise observant one. It is his task, this noble theif, to bind these four as one; a task awaits which links their fates, they all are under the gun.
For you see, my friends, these Lost Boys ends are enwrapped and intertwined. They share a bond unknown to most, of a truly unique kind. Indeed it is with sadness and peril their story to unfold. This single hand of son's of man have a story to be told.
So gather ye round, and keep a sharp eye, our heroes to seek and see. For in their world, naught are safe, sadly, even me. For as I tell their tale to you, this story wild yet true, the hand of fate has filled their plate, and I place it now before you.
Indeed my friends, I near the end of this ironic tale yet untold, to Jamie J., tis mine to say, your poetry hath now been sold. And even in fulfillment of a simple friendly test, I tell you now the story rides within my mind and chest.
So watch you well the pages, that may yet come to light, a tale of strife and suffering, of evil stepping from night. And while this all unravels and the revels slowly begin, dear reader I fear the truth of this is that you are now most wholly drawn in.
Beware, Lost Boys..... your story is being written, and your lives will never be the same.....
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