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