Alchemist.

Dust clouds.
They build up around our laboratory like weightless ghosts
That stalk and protect our building,
Which hangs in the middle of nowhere; viewed by none.


A certain air looms around the scene.
As if fairies spent their time,
Sparkling dust around our laboratory of magic happenings;
Forbade and exiled.


Chalk races across the chalkboard,
And pencils race across paper – followed shortly be erasers,
Expunging the mistakes made,
Leaving room on a new drawing board that is free to violate
With thoughts of us. Alchemists.


We don’t ride brooms,
Nor do we have warts on our noses nor bugs in our hair.
For the longest time we were seen as just the normal scientist;
One of us would scoff at such a thing,
Breaking the silence of the room.


Our ideas are thought weak and irrational.
What happened to the respect?
When did our ideas become a mockery,
And who are all these “Chemists” that steal our discoveries?


Stoic.
My face holds no passion, nor love or sorrow,
All I feel is exhaustion.
The love I once had for a family slaughtered;
Gone.
I am numb.


What have we become?
What have we become?
What have we become?!