Listen, before you cut your eyes out

Poor child,
In your eyes tears that cry out in anguish
For stars torn apart,
The March of armies tearing you from your mother’s breast
The sea green divide
Of thousands of aeons of loneliness and despair on the new planet’s surface

Poor child,
You’ve probably seen me in your age and wondered if modifying your body
Could give you back the sense of connection
With your brethren you lost so long ago
I can tell you it won’t.
All the makeup and surgery in the world
Couldn’t repair the damage to your soul.

Little one you are lost in a world that doesn’t recognize the old ones.
Nobody wakes to an old face and thinks to themselves: my gods this is me, static and unchanged.
There are reasons we are ancient,
and why we no longer walk the earth in the old form,
But there are those among us who walk in human skin,
who sing the old songs,
and tell stories by the seaside,
waiting for our tormented brethren to wander along,
Priests and priestesses of our mysteries wait to sing our souls back home,
And without them we would be lost, swimming in an endless chasm, waiting for the world’s end.

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