The whisperers

It is a sickness, they say;

a troubled mind with too much information;

something gone wrong with some lobe

and manufactures whispers.


So I pretend I cannot hear

the voices that come, the whisperers

of fancy tales and half-baked facts

and some undoubted truths.


How can I tell them, pray inform,

that Socrates regretted dying for these donkeys

and Plato found that he was wrong

only he found out too late.


And they would laugh, would they not,

had I relayed how Aristotle

studied the sea on Lesvos isle because

all he wanted was to paint.


Maybe I could just tell them this:

Hippocrates is really mad about your take on the oath

and Pythagoras laughs aloud while he cools

his feet in transient waters.


They’ll keep me here, I think;

another victim of those voices long gone;

a perfect medium for those whispering,

chained on a metal bed.


3 responses to “The whisperers

  1. this poem is great it sounds like its from a book or movie. It’s very mysterious, and dark.

  2. Hey, thanks for responding!

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