Origin Chain

And so he walks,
Not light or dark.
Just simple, gray;
Neutral man.

He has none,
Irregular thoughts.
To dance down;
The walls of his brain.

He speaks, soft words,
Not full or less.
They stir his breath;
And the air.

He knows the want,
Of lucid men.
Yet drives,
None but his own.

He is:
A choice,
From pestered time.
Or so the mighty claims.

He keeps,
Steady with course.
Knows nothing:
A genius from his own troubled mind.