It is we who sit quietly,
unaffected, unassuming, unafraid,
the silent masters of our universe,
the observers of a reality
that no one else noticed was variable.
It is we who wait patiently —
but without hopefulness —
for a world that does not change,
that prides itself
on rediscoveries of old
time and time again.
It is we who remain,
dispassionate, detached, desolate,
the captives of a changeless world
that mostly shifts in useless, stagnant ways
that we understand far too well
to truly become a part of.
But together on our cold and rocky cliff —
that towers over waters of tradition, of perception, of limitation;
above cities, above empires, above human understanding —
we sit beyond the reach of common fate.
And on our seaside we wait, so innocently entranced
by the timelessness and invincibility of our careless whims
which fight feebly but surely against impeding nothingness
and by the feeling
of a feeling
for something greater than ourselves.