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.

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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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