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 sparkle.
The allure.
Through the years and 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 supernatural worlds.
To the magic of fairies.
To great visions of children.
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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