Just A Man

Is he crazy, is he pure?

If his heart fell flat,

Could anything be a cure?

One day is swollen and another is gone.

Both rest in graves encased by dawn.

He is nothing but a thinker.

No loose screws, no gears to tinker.

Oh why, oh how?

He’s done, where do we venture now?.

He wants to break free.

Every idea moves like as the wind greets a tree.

Truth is his calling.

Rambunctious, but thinking.

He stays in a daze when you fall.

In any given hour, he believes he’s tall.

The black of the room has made him so afraid.

Is it pitiful, is it swayed?

If he has been washed,

Just know you’ve been squashed.