Seldom am I struck with terror, as the
Day I sojourned at the Village of Care.
Welcome, they said, we are defenders
Of truth. Here all evil must beware.
You look famished. Come join us  
For our monthly community feast,
A time of fellowship and celebration,
A time for a blessing from the High Priest.
I took my seat at one of their long tables
And was instructed to bow my head
As the High Priest blessed the food
And to my horror slit his wrist and bled  
On a silver cup passed for everyone to sip.
I refused of course when the cup came to me.
Excuse me sir, but this is a hallowed tradition,
To descent is an offense of high degree.
Now, now said the village chief, he is our guest.
Slaves, send out the newborn brain, let us eat!
I winced when I saw the platters of gray mush
Brought in by branded men, scarred and beat.
I turned to the woman beside me and asked how
Are there still slaves and absurd rituals like these.
She pretended to ignore me and looked the other
Way, but her eyes screamed… just obey… please.
The High Priest heard me and sternly declared,
Women are forbidden to speak among us men.
All that you see is in the Book of Care.
Doctrine from the most High is law, my friend.
With that the villagers ravaged on newborn brain,
Desperately consuming what they lack.
I took a bite of the gray mush and swallowed,
Yet my stomach revolted and sent the mush back.
Regurgitated brain plopped on my plate,
Heads turned and silence with full force invaded.
What sacrilege is this? exclaimed the High Priest,
It seems that this man’s soul is rot and degraded.
Utter disgust plastered on everyone’s faces.
Some men stood up and took hold of my body.
They marched to the village gates and hurled
Me out and spat on me for being ungodly.
And to this day the thought I cannot bear
That there exists the horror that is the Village of Care.

Fountain of youth runs in his veins,
The man who lives in Sycamore Keep.
His circadian clock had come to a halt,
Rather than rejoice, he sullenly weeps.
You would think that immortality is
The pinnacle of human existence,
All the time in the world and not a
Single malady to be of any resistance.
Yet there he sulks, the ageless man,
Cauterized by the turn of each century,
As loved ones breathe their last and
Become a parcel of his fractured memory.
But that is just the shell of his woes,
For even with all knowledge amassed,
He’s utterly aghast with the state of the
World unwilling to learn from the past.
Every crook and cranny explored,
Every experience well savored,
Now monotony for millennia to come,
His longing to live has ebbed and wavered.  
I was told by the man of Sycamore Keep
That immortality is a curse so alluring.
Indeed, a hundred cultivated years is
Much better than hollow eons securing.
But sir, think of all the riches you’ve accrued
And mastery of all science and philosophies.
Who wouldn’t want to have the time to mark
The world and purge it from all its atrocities.
Say no more, interrupted the ageless man,
I applaud your idealism and optimistic delusion,
But you’re missing one essential element --
Even as immortals, we’d still be only human.
And to be human, is to be fallible. Let’s just say
That immortal fallibility will engender no good.
It'd be best to truncate our lifespan for the
Sake of our survival, yes truncate we should.  
And that’s all I heard from the man of Sycamore Keep,
Who went on his way to his millennial weep.