The Thinker
propagated and plunged,
into the depths of misery.
every muscle aches in cogitation.
a level playing field,
with missing bones.
a war hero composed
upon the compost of humanity.
eyes closed in memory,
vigor still agitated in extremities,
philosophy carved out of stone.
massive ripples and torment
cry out,
“Is anyone out there? Does God exist”
the eyelids heavy, shaded - umbrella-like,
the pavilion, warblind warrior, forgets
all the kindness and love of country.
mankind looks at him and frets.
a frozen neanderthal, a gypsy
amidst the city traffic - he’s no longer home
in this body cast.
his toes wriggle free, decomposed.
the young looks up at him, wrinkles the nose.
but the image, like a photograph remains
in the mind, a harbor of discontent
and a young man or woman must choose
to ponder every inch or plummet the thought
off a cliff, without realizing they are holding
on with an iron grip, to rinse and repeat
the horror,
with war, hate and the torticollis of love.
2/9/2018
Copyright © Kim Rodrigues | Year Posted 2018
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