She cannot see us or perhaps its because she chooses not to see us. We live among the normal yet we are not allowed to live along the normal. We are unnatural because we are born this way and there is no way to change such a cruel fate. We lurk in the shadows, standing still like statues so none shall notice us, for if anyone will notice us, it will not be her.

Because maybe she doesn’t want to see us. We stand in the dust, eating the particles of shame while we endure our fate. For our destiny is not to live, for we are not human. We are born inhumane, lifeless, and cold. And our only hope of surviving is to believe with our frozen hearts that we shall be personified from our gravel perch and fly like gargoyles sprouting our wings from our deformed bodies to watch over the smaller and less capable.
But who knows? Maybe she can see us. For how could she miss us? The rain of gray hail that shall cover the Earth after we are shot down is undeniable proof that we were once animate. Alive. But there is always a divine right that chooses to sweep the streets and rid it of our impurities. To wash away any increment of our existence as if memories could be overwritten so easily.

She may not see us, but she works in mysterious ways. Because call forth Pompeii and we ruled. We watched, as our impurities became the normality of society. No longer will bronze David statues set the bar for perfection as we fail in the school of Athens.

Or so she made us believe, for no bar is absolute. We should know better than any other. For with the fall of Ethiopia came the factories of new that replaced the old. We no longer reigned. Instead we colonized. We became domesticated. We classified ourselves as victims of Neolithic change as we blame our problems on an era that had no power.

Because we believe that she cannot see us or perhaps we wished for her not to take off her blindfold and stare us down. To shine the light on our shadows and open the curtains to the tiny man twiddling for his life inside. For we feared the girl in bloodstained boots who dusted off our life, as if clarity could be achieved with manmade forces. We dreamed that none would shine a light on us and reveal our rocky past.

But this is only a fantasy. For such light only shines on the track of the race of the light. And the spectators hidden in steel and stone shall live on. Painting blank stares on the people the light could not vindicate. For this is reality, and with upcoming realism does one finally understand. She could shine her holy light on us and cut our shackles, but she wont for her devilish angels whisper and preach her stories and fables. Stories filled with slithery slander that sent sand to fall from our time and bury us beneath it.

Until the day where we shall rise from our terracotta husks and challenge the sun for the truth shall crucify us on holy crosses as we pin ourselves to redemption and lie in wait for a greater divine right to pass judgment on our lives. For all actions must have an equal and opposite consequence.