No one ever told his story right.
They’d see him walking
down the street, talking to people
who weren’t there. They’d have pity
when they should’ve wondered,
marveled at his ability to see
what they couldn’t. But alas,
they called him crazy, pointed, laughed,
behind his back
all the while singing pity songs to his face.
He knew, of course, but what was there
to do? They couldn’t see what he saw, so
how was he to change their minds?
Start with one, an impressionable one, he thought.
A child wouldn’t be s tainted, so closed.
He took to the beggar children and told them
stories of his guardians, the angels and demons
that came to see him, to try to make him side
one way or the other. All of them discussed,
some automatic in their angel leaning, but others
couldn’t be so sure. The demons hadn’t harmed him.
What could be so bad about them?
“Exactly. Maybe someone didn’t tell their stories right.”
The children learned to stay in the middle.
They learned to Listen, Question, and Act from the
road between the heart and the mind.
From there came a generation of
“Air-Talkers”. They liked this nickname.
Finally, something other than pity songs.
Maybe one day they’d all learn, and he could
pen his own story.