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…
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