The Lean Man on the Balcony

“Does everything you write spring forth from some 
 deep well of reason and purpose?” She asked.

As an answer, I wrote this poem:



A man once stood
On a balcony small.
His frame was lanky,
His figure, tall.

From there he looked
At all things, everywhere.
To some, he gave a glance,
To some a seething stare.

He knew not what it was
that he stood searching.
In his head a line
Of ideas kept marching.

He stood like that for days
For hours on an end.
Until his sight began to falter,
And his back began to bend.

His knees had begun to sore
From hours of continuous leaning.
And his life, like this poem,
Had no purpose or meaning.


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