They are clockwork.
Such asinine machines,
you could pity them
so long as you pity them softly.
Our sighs catch on the ear,
and their empty eyes glint with loathing;
for all the world they'd
short themselves out
just to eat the spark we posses.
We, the possessed!
Our power lies in entities that
shake our minds when we
stumble on the worlds in our head,
left breathless and dumb with our brilliance.
We translate it to the world,
we are our own prophets.
They had the same gifts
wrenched, robbed, or broken from them.
And without the humming in their chests
their very bones turned to lead,
their minds turned to pistons,
and their spirits
It is not by chance we
inspire one another,
we provide the energy that
fuels each other and somewhere along the way
they walked out.
We tried reaching,
pulling them back
only to be snapped in half by
hands too harsh to create.
They are the unfairly abandoned,
and we bear their hopeless hate.