They were outcasts.
Dark-hearted, hazy voiced, barely alive:

Children of the town’s fever
Branded freaks.

Their hands were scarred, marked by blood
And their eyes were slow to move.

Still, they danced.

Their shadows jived along the dusk line,
Lit now and then by moon glow.
And their skin, strange to touch,
Was said to give off magnetic force.

Stories. Just stories.

Radio broadcasts warned of their nature:
How the freaks followed desires
Drawn from cosmic waves, voices
That spoke to them in code Of pathways, of secrets.

It was a message written in sky music,
So the townspeople said.

Madness. Only madness. What else could it be?

Meanwhile, the children were silent,
Trembling as the Starman called
and the wander zones opened.