In the songs that are unheard of. Told as stories slipped in hidden books. We are not you, we do not play your childish games. Our world is ours. There is only how we got here. There is what there is because it should. We plead from the divine. We practice poetry in our deeds. The forlorn begs for her chance to dream, in the cheap exhilaration of commonplace praise.
We need not seek to be adored.