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.