The Trouble With Odd Things

Why do ye call me mad?

'Cause I speak of something new?

"There's nothing new to add", say ye

"At least, nothing that's True"

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But it is those with a demon,

who need least be demonized

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And the sick whom need most a doctor

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Yet it is the blind one,

who needs least his human eyes

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And the mute needs not just a talker

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For sensitive eyes lend themselves to scowls,

And the Truth hides from wayward hearts

Dare I shew thee what 'neath sanity prowls?

Where lay 'Here Be Dragons' on yer charts?

.

"I see nothing 'neath me" sayeth you,

And never seeking, say "I do not find"

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Truly, see ye not the alien?

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Dost ye then define all which is True,

as only old or old's alike in kind?

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Hide ye in the salient?

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Is it not the loudest ones,

which speak the most in lies?

And not the modest bridge which runs,

the chasm 'twixt our minds?

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How is it then ye view things,

Except through things which they match?

Then what, do you, with new things?

Therein lies the catch.

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Like light on closed eyes lingers red,

Only the deaf hear what is said

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Are the 'wise' then made their mockers?

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In a dream upon the Truth ye tread,

confusing the living with the dead

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And those woke, with sleepwalkers

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Ye blind, ye deaf, ye mute,

dare make yerselves as God?

What then, is your fruit?

How deal ye with the Odd?