An Ode to the Soul
Where there is no place for a creature like you.
In times long gone and other worlds, your like, rare and only young, were treasured, two ways–paid a lot and reverently respected.
Now the world turns a blind eye to all that you were and could accomplish, to all the fire of your majesty and the power of your intention, building systems to try and control the world, hide from reality, a reality you could make them much happier in.
How frustrating to be declared obsolete for the sake of a lie.
I know why men speak of hell. They choose and create it.
Of you, they were never able to subdue and exploit, and so they banished you. You may wait dormant for a thousand years, sleeping in the depths, your breath crystallizing the rock, but when you awake, it is the world of lies that will flicker pale, into nothing, in the golden flames of dawn, the rose light of truth. So insubstantial is hell that reality–the paradise of reality–cuts and wounds.
It is by no rage of your spirit that this world will cease to exist. It is by no love of you that it will know the error of its ways. But it will cry out and seek you as it did in the days of old, treasure you as before, and rare and only young, you will be able to save them from their nothingness, because you alone throw a shadow, swept in holy flames, you alone soar above it all.
If we then ask you to remake the world in your fire… will you?
Many thanks to Vicky Lynn Lewis for the beautiful work on the mood icon artwork of Misht.