This is a poem I wrote years ago about how you lose the innocence of childhood, and as adults we go to our graves lost. It sometimes seems as if people choose a section of others that are outcasted, and that many people think they are better than the outcasts. In reality nobody is better than anyone else except maybe children and people humanity chooses to outcast.
Of Man and Idiot
An idiot is a man once you get to know him
with a heart of gold that a man don’t have,
raining the grass because no one understands.
Man loses the stars.
The dreams.
The magic.
Through the years an years
in the wrinkles beneath his eyes.
He don’t see.
He can’t see.
His vision is blind by mist,
but the idiot believes. And.
Streams still flow never drying in drought
in scorn still mystified to Mickey Mouse.
To Santa Clause.
To great myths of old.
He knows what love is because he is.
A man.
While man dries withered like a prune.
In sun.
No longer a man,
but an idiot
in dust to dust
so unhappy. Man is.
When death becomes him.
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