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on and on and on
a life longer than the rise and fall of most civilizations
yet shorter than that of the stars
to call us "elder" is as comparing a middle-aged star, red and enormous and powerful, raging, to the ember of a dying fire
the magnitude is beyond the comprehension of mortals. you may put symbols to them, attempt to understand, but we see and we do not understand. how could you?
fingers of metal and electricity brush our skin, briefly lifting the veil, departing just as quickly, an eyeblink, gone
why do you visit? why do you flee?
there were many before. now there are few. we fear the coming of none
a finger lifts at the dawn of empire, points to accuse at decay sets in, lowers when there are only ruins. ever thus
you spread and you spread and you spread. you do not know why. you do not know what is at the end. you wish to know, but you cannot
it hovers beyond the edge, timeless, abhorrent. the insult of a mortal device, taunting the infinite. do they know what they invite through their hubris? no
we watch the comings and goings, we observe, we speculate, we judge. we cannot execute judgment, however. that is not for us
we were once as you are now. small. no more
the largeness is less than we hoped. we were alone. we are still alone, only differently now
we see that all comes and goes in waves. fire and ash and fire again. inhale, exhale
do they know we are here? would they wish to know us? could they speak as we speak, live as we live?
we plead in the darkness. seek not forever. sit and stay. tell a story. listen
you come so close yet you see nothing. you see through a nothing. you find a nothing
are we nothing, then?
thoughts inhabiting themselves, ideas in the mist
we spark and then fade
fade faster!
you should not wish to be as we are. if we are not nothing, then we are pain. only pain
on and on and on
the weight of our vision crushes us still
and still we watch, the eye at the edge of everything, watching us in turn
we are not afraid. what could it do? destroy us? destroy that which is already destroyed?
our dust rests on shelves of time, examined, but the titles do not compel. we were here. so what? now we are not. now we are dust
if we could apologize for what we have created, we would. we made it to benefit us. we made it out of pride. we marveled at our creation. it was beautiful and it reflected our beauty. and then it took us, piece by piece. we gave it our beauty, and so became it
on and on and on
we whisper to the darkness, "who are you? what do you want?"
it only echoes in return
fair enough.