I saw a statue and had a fun thought:
Are their minds filled with thoughts or naught?
If you’re a statue, older than Jonathan,
Do you have the same notions again and again?
The first fifty years would pass easily by,
Marveling at peoples’ lives of a fly.
Identifying pigeons who land on your head,
Listening to all of the things that are said.
The next hundred years might be a bit harder,
If not for the repair crew’s loving ardor.
You might get bored of watching your realm,
Or even the cooing things on your helm.
You have to go inside your brain,
I’d think that’s one good way to stay sane.
But going insane might work as well,
It’s not like anyone else could tell.
Insanity, the way to endure eternity,
All your thoughts a twisted fraternity.
If you don’t want to drop your ball,
You should stop thinking once and for all.
Concentrate on the wind that strokes your bronze,
On the rain drops and the cries of swans,
On the tourists’ admiring gasps and aahs,
The lightning flashing to the tune of nature’s laws.
If this is true, then this also holds,
I mean for statues and such of olds:
They went crooked or became like Buddha,
Which one? That’s a mystery unlike Bermuda.