Timothy runs, he's ignorant, that child.
He's crisp white ice on a stained glass aisle,
He's the aimless banter of a thoughtless brain,
And he's lost in the canter of a mind untrained.
Timothy runs forward and the world runs back,
He's fast on the heels of faster facts,
They're colorless, tasteless, depth-less words,
But still, Timothy chases them for all they're worth.
Timothy runs through a gold-gray field,
A field of corn, a field of steel,
It's a man-made marvel, an acre of gold,
It's a yellow-gray field of heat and cold.
Timothy runs, and his shoulders scrape,
The gray-gold grass with the corn-steel blades,
His words have died in the oddball field,
And Timothy's sad--he's ignorant still.
"Where's my knowledge?" Timothy demands.
There's a dent in the earth where his still feet stand.
"It's that way," a source-less voice then says,
And Timothy runs in adamant chase.
Timothy's feet begin again to thunder,
And the once-dead words die again asunder.
But words don't matter, Timothy decrees,
He sees the shadow of running feet.
The shadow runs back to the field of steel,
And Timothy's as sore as his poor feet feel,
"There's your knowledge," says the gray-gold land,
And now there's one more dent where Timothy stands.
A lifetime later, Timothy's gray,
His gold has faded, and his feet have frayed,
But Timothy still runs and the field still stands,
And there's fifty thousand dents where his still feet stand.
And then one fine day Timothy sways,
And falls into the grave that his still feet made,
"You've found your knowledge," says the field to none,
But Timothy's happy, he no longer runs.