They were outcasts.
Dark-hearted, hazy voiced, barely alive:

Children of the town’s fever,
Branded freaks.

Their hands were scarred, marked by blood,
And their eyes were slow to move.

Still, they danced.

Their shadows jived along the duskline,
Lit now and then by moonglow.
And their skin, strange to touch,
Was said to give off magnetic force.

Stories. Just stories.

Radio broadcasts warned of their nature:
How the freaks followed desires
Drawn from cosmic waves, voices
That spoke to them in code
Of pathways, of secrets.

It was a message written in sky music,
So the townspeople said.

Madness. Only madness. What else could it be?

Meanwhile, the children were silent,
Trembling as the starman called
And the wanderzones opened.



[: SOURCE :]