Why did I kill Socrates? What is it
about the truth that makes me long for blood?
Where in my unknown being is it writ
I must obey inner murderous flood?
I always thought it was just sticks and stones,
but now I see atavistic impulse
to fear words roams dark and deep in my bones,
and make truth a dread I must need repulse.
As Twain did reMark, ‘History may not
repeat itself, but it certainly rhymes.’
Prometheus, Christ, Socrates all caught
in my call for blood in cyclical times.
I await the child who hears this hemlock,
and lets out a cry, ‘What a piece of crock!’