They really don’t know how good they are
The few who care to care
They plod along with happy despair
That the world somehow doesn’t recognize them
When all about them are the eyes of the past
Slowly widening as they blossom
Into what they were bound to become
All along—but their peers don’t quite see it
The old ones do-
The teachers, at least those who care, do
They see the universal contract signed at their
Birth and which only they can break
And joy oozes out of them
Because unbeknownst to their
Friends, they have been nurtured—even courted
To reach their potential—
And some of them actually do—
And then the old ones
Sing Biblical praises and heathen
Chants to their greatness
Knowing all along that this one
And that
Secretly possess the It—
The beautiful, unasked for, the no-denying-oneself
Factor
That the rest can only gaze at through the
Fuzzy atmosphere of mediocrity
Drats! Judgment killed the wrong soul
Because the kindergarten teacher wrote it down
In little Curley Hurley’s file
Instead of in the prodigy’s notes—
And Curley grew to be a an amazing leader
But the other kid—he went unnoticed
By the very people who thought themselves
Impartial—despite his genius
And the cure for everything remains elusive.
Word Play 