Freak

“A Freak”

Under a canvas of violet‑carnival lights,
the world hums in a half‑eerie lull;
the crowd, a sea of pavement‐dusted faces,
queues twisting like cobwebs of a London fog.

There, at the edge of mimicry,
the one called a freak—
clad in paper‑bagglers’ gloves and oddities,
his gaze cracks the bright, sharp edge of the field.

His silver hair, as if it had stolen the moon,
flutters in a wind that nobody can name;
his laugh, a ragged chime from a brass bell,
bounces off the rows of circus tents, echoing down the lane.

They press around him, a crowd so colour‑heavy
and easily realising the strange in the mundane.
They gasp, they chuckle, their eyes flick from wild sides;
do they see the awe or merely the label?

In the hush that follows the circus’s boom,
the “freak” feels the earth— not bruised, but percolated, alive.
“Maybe I am the freak,” he whispers to the night.

But the folk, in their bright neon hearts,
often forget that the most ordinary streetlit lane
was once paved by a man who dared to rise,
and the obsession he feels is the satisfaction of the honest.

So stand with me on a late‑night platform,
lift a hand to the surprise that’s centre‑plained by heart,
and let the darkness reveal its own reverie:
every freak is a masterpiece, in its own art.