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.