I sup with the Old; go to sleep with their kin.
What I cannot see, colors and clouds show.
Painted and unpainted, adorned not by the adoration they’ve been shone but by their naked shining.
They never called themselves Master or Mistress and when they ask me to speak, I wonder if this is how they felt before their visage was distorted by those who could not see.
I wonder if the message will again be lost in the messenger because we are afraid of what we’ve prayed for; if we’ll prey upon it because the vision it shows is our reflection, not what we wish to see.