The statue sat in thinking pose

long fingers stretched up past his nose

pondering the worlds every woe

as burning sun gave to blustery snow

that affected not his train of thought

no matter how hard the wind did blow.

Across the twisting graveled path

sat a boy, engrossed in thoughtful task

of what the marbled form did spend

so much time lost in mental math

considering or seriously solving

though stuck on the pedestal in the grass.

Was he remembering some love long lost?

Or how creation came with fallen cost?

Or had death covered his closest friend

with blackened breath like creeping moss?

Did he think of the burdened poor

who died from hunger by the score?

Or was he sending prayers to heavens gates

past the fabled golden shores?

But the statue (who is you, Soren, my good man!)

sat untouched by natures chilling fan

to only challenge the mind of passer-bys,

who, on seeing his brow-furled guise

would stop to think and, thinking, stand

with a thousand thoughts passing ‘neath their eyes

engaged with sorting truth from lies.

For when one man thinks,

others join, minds a’brew;

and thinking men, my friend,

is what will always please you.