We cast our shining child adrift
on strange seas.
For with time,
these starless currents black as mourning
may work a sea-change.
And if, one grisly dawn,
the skies should hurl you, herald-like, back to Earth,
remind us, foundling,
of what we immaculate ones have lost.
What succulent richness disease's kiss may bring.
My festering demigod.
My Nidus.