He wasn't great at anything
Never a sculpture
Or an encyclopedia portrait
A rather odd logo
From a different establishment
Energy was intermittently governed by spirit
And spirits
His name was also a number
Socially secure yet alphabetically altered
His design was simple however obscure
But they named him manure
He was the waste product of nature
The skin was his dirt and cologne
For he damaged the earth with his birth
And his thoughts of worms dug through the soils worth
Burning in the minds hot hearth
He begged for the waters thirst
geyers
Like elephant trunks in between tusks
He was the dung on the bottom of foot
Trampled rug wipe your feet with a welcomed hug
Water
Washes away the sand castles daughter
He was a father not a prince or a knights armour
And as he walked his path that time slaughtered
God's wrath bought hurt but hadn't cured
What he wanted
Was it greatness
Or the value of a dollar
That makes him feel like a God
Naturally
For what is his nature
Should you label him normal
Awkwardly
Difference is his individuality
Occuring in nature independently
Frequently
What it so great about the one guy, no one knew
that would matter to a disappeared world
An earth visited by a clock
Fathered by Mother
He discovered
Life is a matter
Suspended in a black hole pattern
Ghostly dimensions of spiritual gathered
Out of his control or design
What his labeled read when applied
Property of eternal deaths life
He wasn't great at anything
Until the end of time