Poem: Changeling

Strip me of my wings,
Of my glamour and elegance,
Of the pomp and majesty and mystery;

Strip me of my people,
Of my glyphs and tradition,
Of my memory and birthright;

More than blood runs in my veins.
For I am the whisper, and
I am the song;

I am that which haunts,
Teasing and tempting and tormenting you
With half-remembrances and promises I will not keep.

I am the ephemeral;
That which drifts and shimmers and fades,
That which does not stay—untouching and untouched.

You want to know why.
Why I haunt and torture you,
Why I hold nothing and cannot be held

I do it because I can.
Because if I must suffer the agony of a home denied,
Then you will suffer with me.

I think this goes without saying, but as we live in a world of rampant asshattery, please allow me to state for the record: this is my intellectual property. As such, please do not copy, circulate, edit, alter, take credit for, or otherwise appropriate this material without my express permission. Thank you.

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