Outskirt Town

Somebody was telling me today that the problem with those who are aloof,
is that they miss out on some really great stuff.

Sort of like those people who would never think of getting down in the dirt and sifting through it all to find those specks of gold.

Funny how they value the gold, but not those who live every day in the dirt and despair of the searching for it.

While the grandmasters in our lives,
plan the ultimate mining machine
we go on pawing the gravel at their feet in the hope of a glimmer.

If we find it, well, we will have done it the wrong way.
It wasn’t done their way.
It will have been the way of the fluke artist.

Perhaps they will build cities with comittees and
central stations of community thought.
Thinking thinking planning planning.

Casting a cold eye on those out alone
in a tent with not even a phone for self-assurance.
Just a shovel. Maybe a pick.
A handful of hand tools and a sense that we all should get a chance.

And when the grandmasters end, when their one little life is spent,
and their walls are adorned with the praise of people they don’t know, what then?
Will they be judged better than those from the tents who didn’t know the right way, or any way.
Those paupers without plans or projects or processes or people to tell them what to do, that did everything they wanted to anyway? Those poor souls whose intentions were not as grand,
but could stand the mud and mistakes to keep trying,

What happens to them?

I call it outskirt town. A town full of circus tricks and humble pies.
Where the gold that lies deep down in the dust,
is the massive life you can spend with others you trust.

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