When a mold has been broken,
It is difficult to replace its status.
Since the achitect needed,
To re-create the blueprint...
Has to everyone been told,
Through generations young and old...
Their selective beginnings started,
From hand-me-down myths...
Of ancestors sitting high on thrones.
When in actuality,
The achitect was a janitor named Hank...
Who loved to doodle.
You know...
Hank?
The one who laid down all the pipe.
Genius's are not known but discovered. Sometimes we are but too late. A world full of mistakes. A world full of heart ache. But still the story must be made of gold. Enhance both the young and old. Truth tends to be stranger then fiction. Society is accustom to a set realities. How do you think they would take it? Are you crazy? Then can't know, they mustn't know. Who would believe such an outrageous claim anyways?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
He sold candy and newspapers on trains running from Port Huron to Detroit, and he sold vegetables to supplement his income. - That was Thomas Alva Edison :) I am an Architect by degree and I know there are many great architects who started with doodles :) ...... Someone once told me the eggs cracked..things cant go back to normal...My say was 'make it into an omellette... you can still enjoy... just the perspective changed.... the mould broke... recast it... it may not be the exact same piece but it will have a beauty of its own! :)