A man newly fashioned out of catcher in the rye driftwood, nurses a stoic solider lip, quivering. His name is known by all in town, but he is not known as true as the wind can soar and salty water can sting. It started on a sunny road; a lifesaver hanging from a rose balloon. No tug of war game on the sunny road blueprint. Conceived and heels dug in centre earth. The sand white and love raised in a wild naked space: a mortal man, no pantheon of gods in his veins; a man.
A city, country and (no sovereign border) international love affair; coffee pours out of his ears, ink freely drains and images grow roots. Art rises through a ventricle chimney. Voices fountain through ocean and forest and stare unbelieving; he is ushered with Morpheus ribbons and placed on a first place podium. He a ghost living, scared and between not wanting to be and knowing he cannot go to bed. A grown up man, wishing upon the outer cyber stars, all will make their dreams come true.
And that is his only fault, for not all dreams are true.
Clementia, grant him your divine clemency
wrap your poultice of forgiveness around his being
for he has been muddied
and lastly will you tell me, why the good are so misunderstood?