He is the painting amongst sculptures,

A stark contrast only one dimension askew.

 

He is the boy standing alone in the rain,

Whose umbrella lies before his bare feet.

 

He is the deaf seated in the front row of a symphony,

Listening with only four senses.

 

He is the tree growing out of concrete,

An essence of nature bound within the city.

 

He is the outcast,

the rebel,

the underrated,

the caged.

 

But because he is less,

because he is overlooked, overshadowed, ostracized

He is also so much

More.

 

He is the painting highlighted against the white of sculptures,

Centered neatly on display with his

Vibrant colors and splashes of ink.

 

He is the boy dancing to the pitter-patter rhythm

While adults dry off their coats and shoes,

And his soundless laugh echoes as they do.

 

He is the deaf with his own symphony playing.

Greater than sound, sight, taste, smell, touch

Does he see his world with heightened senses.

 

He is the tree doing something impossible,

A lush reminder of life within the bustle of

Car engines, rushed footsteps, and brevity.

 

He is the bold,

the non-conformist,

the individualist,

the thriving.

 

A complex series of

Nerves, circuitry, and wiring,

Heart, soul, and spirit contained in flesh:

He is the human.