Sometimes I stare at shattered stars in the palm of my overgrown hand.
I run my bruised and scraped fingertips across each crack, knowing they won't
be made whole again.

Sometimes I look towards the one that made me what I have to be.
Exploring humanity's imagination, creating great dreams for those to witness.
But their hatred was my own undoing.

Sometimes I peer at the gashes left within me.
A constant battle of free will and thought, a protector of that which I hate
the most. A being of my own torment and malice.




I miss my stars.

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Scag Note: N/A