cloud dancer

my son is such a one that thinking men might think him silly in the head
but silly he is not
he is a thinker of ethereal things that skip along outside the boundaried mind

my son is such a one that focused men would tend to disregard him as distracted
when fact is that he does not idly dwell in nothingland
but takes his journey's road through ethan-world
because the colors there are brighter

my son is such a one that learned men might wonder at his wit and call it half
tho in reality the concept of intelligence
to him is nothing more than folly
he seems to sense the need to think inside the box
but such an act would be as difficult for him
as life is for conformist folks who dare to try and dream outside

my son in younger times could call upon creative muse
and dance his way through childhood games
in ways that made attention paying grown-ups awe
while other children chose to be a tree
this child would chose instead to be the leaves in process of revealing their fall color
when others played charades by being butterflies or bacon
my son became his views of water dripping through a straw

my son cannot quite seem to grasp the concepts of mundane and ordinary
his thoughts instead refuse to leave the realm of the bizarre
he sparkles up the daily grind
with questions that can blow your mind
and often seems too hard to find amongst the wreckage of the logical

he dwells, my son, in all his glory
challenging convention while his spirit soars
refusing ropes that hold him down
he bounces
from one thought cloud to another
and I suspect he watches with a smirk
and whispers
"freedom!"
for all with ears to hear