From the firsts to the lasts,
there came no drop of furry,
because the latter were sooner made the outcasts.
In a sense of self deprivation, the déluré let themselves into the sea of guilt and self doubt to be devoured.
Some raised their heads and questioned the untouchable high sky.
Why were they not acknowledged for what they had to what they were shamingly deprived.
But the waves were high, the storm was loud.
They all disappeared in the blues.
A fortnight passed and another new moon came again,
Then came the skeletals out,
dressed in the weeds and pearly beads of the deep.
Their appearance paid for the price,
it was then that they achieved some acceptance.
Tides still rise in those sunken oceans,
ebbs still draw back the waters to let them search the place for,
but the missing pieces were never found
and faces of them were eternally lost then.
But the skeletals still sing and dance,
those hollow bodies,
no matter it is a full moon or no moon singing in their behind.
© sunshine07