His mind is not a clock, but a seismograph,
Recording tremors that no football makes.
He sketches proofs upon a frosted glass,
Where truth is fractured, and the logic breaks.
He holds a microscope to common grace,
Dissecting kindness down to pure intent,
He reckons the secret structure of a face,
But cannot build the house where he’d be sent.
A sun that burns too bright, his inner core,
Casting shadows where the others stand.
They see the stutter in the metaphor,
The trembling blueprint held within his hand.
They read the surface tension of his pause,
The slight misalignment of his steady gaze,
They choose the comfort of their simple laws,
And dim the current of his brilliant haze.
He measures gravity, not by the fall, but by sheer, unyielding pull of worth.
He won’t chase warmth beyond the garden wall, nor harvest pity from the frozen earth.
He is a lonely supernova, vast and bright, deserving of the light that others share,
But waits for one to navigate the night, and simply see the universe is there.
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