I am a parasite, a disease,
A corruption never meant for your world;
Eons I have traveled,
And light-years crossing the cosmos,
Seeking what you, in infirm mind
And demarcated myopia, can never assimilate.
I have suffered your invectives millennia quondam,
Yet my petitions were never heard;
Ever a calamity I am—
Albeit effulgent and heralding salvation—
And so cannot aspire toward acceptance,
Nor invoke compassion or sentiment.
Is it so profane to be
Something disparate, a creation misconceived?
Tell me, you of veneration,
Am I the portrait of beauty as a prisoner,
So alien to your custom,
Or do I instill fear, a mirror of your turpitude?
I have suffered this denunciation ad infinitum,
And been the object of scorn for my ambition;
I admit, like you—so foul and baseless—
I have my limits, and they’re shattered with iniquity,
And if your approval I cannot have,
Your world, cold and dead, I shall lay to ruin.