A Poem For Socrates

by: Miep

You were something, weren't you? The wise one. The old one. The sexy one.

But it broke, it broke, it broke. Everything turned into mist, now and then.

And then, where were you? This big guy, with all of these angles, and this unspoken fear.

Who needs the curse of bigness, Socrates?

Who wants to be a giant in a small land?

Meanwhile, here's the blog again. What do you say, after, you've driven away?

Do you find stuff that's left? Little bits. Do they matter, after you've broken them?

Does that get you off? I've always wondered about that phrase. What is "off?"

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