The Thinking Man

I look at the thinking man

His chin propped up by his fist

His furrowed brow, looking down

I wonder what thoughts are in the midst

Of his troubled mind, perhaps at peace

Forever confined, until his eventual release

He’s lost in the labyrinth

The sunlight only peeps over the mossy walls,

The archaic beast looming with shadows

Surrounded by the illusionary, forever entranced

He feels deeply, the man romanced

The lovely aurora circling his head, the poets marvel at this

A misty veil shrouds his inner workings, the skeptics suck their teeth

The sculptors gather around, trying their hardest to capture his image

The philosophers discuss from a distance, hoping to crack the code behind the flutters of his eyelids

What we never conclude is he is not in thought

Nor debate, nor reminiscence, nor contemplation

No, this man confirms no such theory

When he opened his eyes and said “Amen.”