I don't think I jest. I hope I don't jest.

Child and World

I call it Socrates's Curse:
That self-identity shall remain hidden,
that the lives of billions shall stagnate
in a retrograde waltz, three-two-one.

It seems like nothing:
This gorgeous, pathtic irony that
winks at us full of undivulged secrets
born of countdowns, three-two-one.

This is why we count backwards:
Because progress is so overrated,
too popular for popular support, too
forward-thinking; one-two-three-four.
And one.

This is how we march:
In tune and in time to the underwater
drumbeat, a sparkling mass of dead
eyes staring nowhere in particular.

It is because:
We all enounter the same ghosts,
the same lives, and nothing comes
forward to surprise us anymore?

Socrates laughs at this:
The rediscovery of natural eye color,
a baby's first glance at the futile world,
and the coming promise of gypsy dances.

A crescendo in words:
Perhaps the philosopher was right in
saying "all I know is that I know nothing."
Perhaps we are merely figments of
Socrates's imagination.

This world is Socrates's Curse.

I'm not normally like this.