In the prodigal body Arrayed in the immortal fires, They that know time not, Free from men's desires,
They became as Watchers Of the vessels of flesh, Unfurling their story From beginning to the thresh,
The sons and daughters of dust Exhausted with little time, The dreams clutters with death Did haunt their kind.
As the Watchers deep within The Creator's grasp Could not figure the hearts Of these children that could not last.
Still they recorded and even Made song, Those of the Dust, Which didn't last long.
These are the chronicles Of the flesh and blood, Like a quickened flower Born of a bud,
The Immortals knew they nothing Of their arrival, What they would become, Or even their survival.
And so here the legend begins From desires and lust, These are the songs From the Children of the Dust.
A series of poems about the misunderstood humanity told from the perspective of an immortal being, sentient but without time, their observations made from an eternal point of view.