Behind The Iron Gate Poem by Dan Reynolds

Behind the Iron Gate, we saw so many different things.
I saw the crazy-paving path, you saw the wrought-iron wings
stretched out across the lintle, o'er the blackened double door
a welcoming of angel's warmth, a refuge for the poor.

I saw the march of tattered dandelions of neglect
the next door neighbour's foliage, Leilandia, I suspect.
You saw yourself some years ago, a paint brush in your hand
Nothing boring in restoring distant memories, so grand.

A few decades, a few decayed and teetering on the rim
last vestages of childhood and the days we spent with him.
A stranger with a thousand tales who swore that none were true
Behind the Iron Gate I peer, and wish I saw the same as you.