To mortal men, we are monsters — so be it.
The fullness of my joy, despair, and beauty,
finally unlocked from rage, I free it,
but will not let it burn beyond its duty.
For too long we have been numb, pushed down
the pain, stored it in marrow, jaw, and chest.
We smiled through the ache, we wore the crown
of pleasant, palatable, repressed.
Now Algol wakes us. The demon star blinks.
The rage stored in the body starts to rise,
no longer willing to sleep, it thinks,
it moves, it opens up its ancient eyes.
Unlock the pain — it is no curse to keep.
It is the fire that calls us from our sleep.