The Crazy One

I once met a man who danced on the clouds and liked to paint his face across the sky. The people all told me he was the crazy one, but I think they just might have been wrong. He’d dance and laugh and feel and live and they would shut their eyes and die, everyday they’d die, and say that he’s the crazy one, he’s alive, they’d say that he’s the crazy one.

They tried to make him their slave, but all they could do was stuff him in a cage. So, I asked how he was doing. He propped himself up on top of his bed, and he laughed like a young child. He asked,