bottle-of-emotion:

Small

Eyes bearing down,

From heights unseen,

Watching,

Criticising,

Yet still blind.

They gaze,

And stare,

Provoking,

Probing,

Unaware of the heart they see.

For “small”,

Is a strange pejorative,

Shallow,

And incomplete.

For these blind eyes do not see,

Not truly.

How could they ever?

For none could ever consider this man small,

For his heart,

His art,

His soul,

Speak volumes,

Far beyond anything an eye could see.

So he will grow,

And I will watch their eyes turn,

Twisted by their own incomprehension,

As he flourishes,

And I will learn.

Inspiration is a curious thing,

Yet it arrives,

All the same,

Borne by the most unexpected vessel,

And for this,

I am grateful.

He is not small,

No,

He is great of heart.