how the Zorbaists came to be

it was the 174th day of the 63rd year after the Borg
had been dismantled,
everyone was in a partying mood
for poetry had returned, slowly at first,
soon poems dropped from the ethers, and their
hands were busy writing from their own bone, blood and marrow,
a wonderful light in their eyes
was seen;

like wildfire
everyone was riveted to an energy pounding in their hearts
with an unmistakable rhythm,
each and every member of the Zorbaists
felt like dancing,
having realized they no longer had to serve any master
but their own conscience,
now that awareness
was the fabric of the universe for the small colony
of freethinkers,
for they had returned to the art of writing
words,
precious words
that they knew,
without doubt,
were written only to elevate one another,
not to disparage or ridicule,
to hurt or be unkind, in ignorance
or in loveless servitude

for it was known that this very thing is
to their own best interest:
for it was written that only poetry will outlive
and perpetuate them into infinity,
into love;
this small
band of brothers and sisters, mothers and fathers, friends and lovers,
the last of
their species,
the first of their kind.

And they knew this to be true.