The Thinker in Velvet Green

He sits where bookspines keep their patient flame, A curled pipe draws small storms into the air. Gold circles glint, yet thought outshines the game, In velvet green he weighs the world with care. The window pours a muted, morning gold, On creased old hands that never hurry time. A steady gaze, a universe to hold, He rules his quiet room with silence prime.