I am the one among the many, I sit beneath the stars, in a field of dandelions, I am the thistle in the dark; I am the misprint on the page, when other words conform, to their perfect sentences for life, I deviate from the norm.
I am the one among the many, alone-ness shining dark, while animals herd toward the light, I am the one that missed the Ark; the phoenix stuck in ashes, while dancing flames surround, in an orchestra of bountiful tunes, I do not make a sound.
I am the one among the many, but I don’t mind at all, I see the many rushing by, and I don’t feel small; thistles and misprints on the page, bring texture to the scene, in a world of difference, I am content with where I’ve been.
We’re all one among the many, with attributes diverged, into packages of difference, delightfully on the verge, of casting ourselves out, to the periphery of life, seeking from the shadows, instead of basking in the light.
We’re all one among the many, dandelions with thorns, rising from the ashes, self burnt, scraped and torn; the many that go dashing by, are each and one and all, the one among the many, and together we stand tall.