The next in my series of Dr Cogito poems, composed fresh this morning.
Dr Cogito regrets the futility of his existence
Do not believe your search will end
Only in salted bread
And a place as a stoker somewhere
The commanding heights will never know
The impress of your shoddy boots
You will die in this open plan
There will be no obituary for you
In our forgotten press
No flowers cast from famous hands
Only the well-known taste of clay
The executioners will gossip
At your grave your madness
Your uncomfortable squirming
When asked to lie
To play along with the latest
Comrade from the rainbow guard
Your dated learning
All those useless books
What help were they
When the judges took your eyes
As if the law could take your side
Only silence forgetting betrayal
You wandered blind prophet
Searching the way to the castle
And back you never knew all lies
Every last veil
Do not believe your helpless revenge
Will disturb the board as it meets
Your words became chains
Holding you against invented change
It was that they distrusted
Words that flowed too well
Bonds between mind and burning soul
Evidence of your jihad
The print on your weapon
Their last conspiracy
Will be to end your words
To make memory fail
To disperse the last rain cloud
And they will say
Do not believe.
