Poem

I am the spirit of silver magic,
But it comes with such a price;
I am not an immortal being,
For that would be too easy.

I am the spirit of death,
but within of the living,
But only seen as the dead,
When without life there is no death.

And you, contemptible man are nothing more
than a child of my toil,
You see me as nothing but what you cannot understand,
In so doing you hate me for something you do not and will not ever comprehend.

You and I are similar,
neither of us are superior.