“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.
