Socrates' Poison

His temper was evenly spread before courtly crowd,
Who bade for blood of infidel unbowed,
Strange ethereal calm settled on him condemned,
To drink deep draughts for words as yet unpenned.

And die he did, wisdom incarnate eternal is he?
Whose mind is set loose and spirt split free,
From mortal longings in bodies despair,
To greater things and places than Plato's lair.

So why then does your poison flood my veins?,
It has reached my heart and soul; and ingrained
These eyes to ask questions of wherefore and why,
Until all around me is just follies' dead lie.

Courage I ask for, to stop in his tracks,
Purge this hemlock whose burden on backs,
Cripples and squeezes joy's journey alighting,
Into dialogues and arguments, all endless fighting.

Time to stand and stare at things themselves,
Perhaps to dream and imagine of woodland elves,
This thing i ask to drink from fern soaked brooks,
And leave behind all poisoned athenian books.