Death of Socrates

December 8, 2015

We were to be wed. She could not wait. So she left me waiting instead. Roses in hand from another man She told me was just a friend.

That vile snake! That despicable wench! My love to her to the ashes. I gave her my heart, and everything I had She recompensed me with lashes.

Perhaps the ashes can empathize. Left alone, burned-out, and stung. The ashes did appreciate my tears, And up from them it sprung.

The death of Socrates, quite fitting. One thinker to another. Arose I did, took a handful, Then departed to the lovers.

Disguised as a waiter, I slipped some Into the platter for the groom. Minutes later, he collapsed inert. I think a fitting doom.

The bride, she cried. I took her side. I held her, I kissed her, she fell. Confused and in fright, I took a step back, Turned to run, but tripped into Hell.

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Adrian Faye

I cannot be put into words. My heart is the most complex of creatures. My eyes have seen and my lips have tasted, and yet I endure. My heart has been torn to pieces, and still I breathe. In a world of utter confusion, I seek truth. I am constant. My love knows no end, and that is my harmatia. Love knows no game in me, and no one keeps my heart. My life is a piece of art to behold, and my heart a museum of loves. My names are protector, lover, confidant, friend, and home. I am the embodiment of passion. I am ever-loving, all-enduring, self-sacrificing, and forever-patient. I seek solice in one of pure intentions, deliberate heart, and same mind. Can one exist, or am I left alone with my own sophistication on this dying rock, fated to wander until the end of my day? If I must solitarily wander into that good night, I will not go gentle. My friends are Plato, Chopin, Shakespeare, and van Gogh. I am, if nothing else, a hopeless romantic, relentlessly seeking my beloved.

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