Do you know someone who thinks
a lot
Who rest his hands and thinks his thoughts
Who knows no bounds yet bounded he may
Gripped in chains yet unresisted they say
He picks a thought or rather gets picked
He scrounges its core through thin and thick.
As if the core was something or someone alive
Some world to treck or some ocean to dive
It would mean so much yet matter so less
And the start and the end would be a beautiful mess
And the mess would be meshed into a thoughtful thrive
Where another would knock and be alive
Yet I don\'t get what freedom it appears
What freedom is free and what of it is tears
What sense does it have to think these threads
These threads that weave more threads ahead
And what of the time what of the place
Where did I reach what did I make
And I would make of such thoughts as a bog
For that he would drown for which
this never stops!!