Mic[kie] Drop

He is not one that stands out from the crowd. Nothing about him is particularly impressive, in fact, he is quite mediocre.

If his pants sag, it’s because he  can’t be bothered to don a belt.

Rather than trendy, the graphic designs that make art of his t-shirts are a catalogue of all of his favourite things.

His unkempt hair is not a fashion statement, though some make a style of it; and his voice, the brooding monotone, is nothing more than a voice, neither for enticing nor repelling.

He is a boy; plain and simple. Or a man, to be more precise. Just a simple man.

He rises with the sun–or rises long after the sun–and goes about his life in idleness.

From day to day he does little and speaks less.

But his spirit–

Oh, his sweet spirit–

It is a place of silent wonder.

Though few words pass between his lips he possesses, within the confines of his imagination, the voices of the ages. The songs of Bards.

His mind is home to the Muses. His heart is their Sanctuary.



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