The Philosopher - A Poem

The man sat at the docks
His feel feeling the rocks
As he cast his eyes over the sea
And he scoured his mind
In the hope he would find
And insurance that he was still he.
But the man only found
All the least of profound
Declarations of what was “to be”.

“For to be was to walk,
To be was to talk,
To be was to think with the word
Of possessions of mine
And the passing of time
And receiving of what we deserve!”
But descriptions he found
Simply shut themselves down
As they only were what he had heard.

For the man lost his love
And he swatted the doves
As they pecked out his eyes in despair
And the laurel he seeked
Still behaved all to meek
And was yet to be found anywhere.
Surely life such as this
Was a life meant to miss
And “to be” was to be much more rare.

“But I need a new fate!
I’ve no time for debate!
I’ve a life that’s worth living to find!
And I’m willing to fight
If it means I’ll be right,
And I’ll leave all these troubles behind.
Failing that, I suppose
I shall wander through prose
And repeat what I have for the time.”

But the thoughts he had left
Hardly bore him the breadth
Of epiphany, powerfully bland.
As he trusted himself
And relinquished all else
He just found he could not understand
Any warm piece of mind
He was grasping to find
Any reason to cherish and stand.

So the rocks learned his feet
And the man grew discreet
To the bank and the waves and the tide.
All the tourists passed
And from time to time laughed
But eventually let him preside
As the foolish old sooth
Who knew nothing of truth
And knew only of how best to hide.
And in time, given well,
The man slumped and he fell
And the sea swallowed quickly his hide
As the waves came in file,
They could not help but smile
At the man who, before he had died,
They had watched as he stared
And could see, but not care,
He could never have been satisfied.