Cure

The human race needs a psychiatrist except that psychiatry is junk.

History is bunk.

Our capacity for delusion is immense, nothing we say or do makes sense.

Me? I sit on the fence.

Conspiracy theorists are all around, they write history, the unfathomable mystery.

Attributing motives is all the rage on every page.

Why did he or she or they do it?

The knowalls know there’s nothing to it.

Believe in flying saucers if you like, there’s no such thing as a bike.

Mad or sane?

You give me a pain.

Memory is false, it tells a lie.

Don’t ask me why.

A book was written in the seventeen hundreds with this title, great popular delusions and the madness of crowds.

At least you heard of it before you put on your shrouds.

Head in the clouds.

If nothing is knowable how do we know what is true?

I ask you.

I too may be deluded.

This poem is concluded.

At least I ask the question, I want to know.

Heal thyself physician, I go.

I name this poem cure.

I endure.

I am deluded I am told.

Who turns base metals into gold?

Tich Ennis

8th May, 2017

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