Valley of High Places

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.