From any and all who can see 
as I see,
From most definitely me; my 
furthest, darkest recesses 
buried deep. 
To they who worship at the 
high places of the Valley;
To the bright cultists from the 
third tribe, second family of 'P'. 

I write this to you from all we 
who are forsaken sons. 
You probably don't recall us, for 
as you see you shun. 
Stare down long noses that, 
unbeknownst to you, run. 
Snottishness and snobbery to 
which you are blind, as Saul to 
the sun. 

I grieve you, our loss, as you 
are engrossed in your web. 
I weep over you because your 
child, Intellect, to you is dead. 
Come down from your high 
places; be united once again. 
Leave your 'god' and surely by 
your child you will be forgiven. 

Cut down the poles, break the 
altars of Fourteen. 
Leave the idols and temples; 
escape the obscene. 
Flee, fly, from its clutches steal 
away. 
Perceive cold truth, see how 
the worship made you stray. 

Raise your head, unstrain your 
eyes; come now, reconnect. 
As the chains fall off remember 
the world and reflect. 
Realize who you are, and could 
be, and then conform. 
Not to me, or any ideology, but 
to the better you transform. 

Dear Reader, if my scribble you 
comprehend, please one thing 
understand. 
To all who use the tools of the 
Valley, this is not a reprimand. 
I only beseech they who 
worship to retake command. 
To rise up in their life and no 
longer take their 'god's' 
demand. 

The gifts of Fourteen truly they 
are great. 
But do not offer yourself over 
to Fourteen, prostrate. 
Leave the high places of the 
Valley, I adamantly pray. 
Find yourself out of the web 
and finally in sun's rays. 

From any and all who can see 
as I see. 
From my pen, directed by the 
longing within me. 
To those lost in the temples 
and high places of the Valley. 
The forsaken ones, and the 
dear Child, miss you fiercely.