A Search Beyond Truth

An Inconsequential Orb

A mongoloid nut case,
And some cheap slapstick humour,
Were all that was present,
In that small Rawdon Street apartment.
A sprawling one room mansion,
Kitchen, TV and a basin,
All squeezed into one.
The look in his disturbed eyes,
Would tell you he was sane. Like us.
He laughed, smiled and grinned,
Except when he didn't.
He cried out his heart,
Except when he couldn't.
Tired of the world, like the rest of us,
Maybe a little too much.
So how was he different,
That he finds a place in someone's lines?
Did he not learn to love,
Or lack a certain spine?
Did he get up at night,
And sleep in throughout the day,
Did he not have his breakfast,
Or simply, was he gay?
Was he "home schooled",
Did his father beat him black and blue?
Could he not play the guitar?
I heard he was a parseltongue,
Do you think that's true?
Some say he had a wife,
A beautiful mademoiselle,
Her death's what changed him,
Set him on the road to hell.
Their daughter cried and cried,
The father took no heed,
The home turned into a den,
The monster was consumed by greed.
One day the crying stopped,
The orb looked at the crib,
He let out a brief howl,
And they say that was it.
I don't know about the story,
Since people are saying, it must be true.
How a ravaged, starved soul,
Forgot all he once knew.
But maybe he was just a normal guy,
With normal problems, and a normal life.
Not too terribly lonely,
Maybe he didn't even have a wife.
Does that make it mundane,
To the sick, perverted, soul searching society?
So what if he never had a proper thought,
Or never lost his sobriety?
It doesn't matter at the end of the day,
As everyone loses the plot,
Trying to sell a shallow happy ending,
Does he have to be or not?