The Forgetful

By Dash Crowley

He cannot leave again.  Not that he would chose to, even though they’ve forgotten him.

They’ve

forgotten that he’d come first, that he’d been great upon a time long ago.  The slight tug on

the

strings of hearts of men and women and children who claim “love” but only hate.  They are

the forget-

ful.  The tugging is their eternal reminder that, perhaps, they could have had something

much greater.

They tortured him before they left him here to rot.  They mocked and questioned and

prodded at

him until he molted and fell apart, body and soul and mind.  Once they were sure he had

been broken,

they shackled him to his fate and they drank the sweet nectar of knowledge and technology

and left

behind the spirit.  The essence of the world itself.  The lifegiver.  Those forgetful ones, they

deny their

very meaning, streaming…