Genius by Mark Twain

Who can be said to be the genius?
Is it the one who blends in so well
you wouldn’t know him from anyone else?

Or is it he with Einstein hair
and infinite care for the world
most of which he departs from?

Is the genius the genuine integral integrity
un-flapping flailing wailing wildly?

Is genius an art-form or mathematical precision
or is this merely the manifestation common
in public conceptualization?

Perhaps the Genius is silent
does he ego about proclamations in hand
or round-a-bout return beneath ground
to hibernate in a cave despite
knowing lightness abounds?

I don’t know.