Their Realities

He never was quite right
different from the rest
where a corner in a class
became his room
and a hat was made in jest.

Normal was the way to be
defined by others
yet un-relayed to him or me.

Can he count
or speak
have him read a word
if he can try two
maybe take his shoes off
so he can get past ten.

What’s that – his feet bounce
and his hands roam around
no concentration in the least
certainly a brain dysfunction
so send him to another place
where he can play with bricks.

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Imagine a well
where people stood around
to see the pit
where stimming stood and moaned
like a lost drop at the end of life
as a tongue turned to a fork
in the hope to eat the lies
but as the bucket lowered
each plate was full of truth
bare as bland can be –
as hammered eyes looked down
to forge the soul
of one lost boy
and fill him….
with their realities.