The Historian Poem by ed purchla

The historian
Has run for the hills, meekly
Belying the truth
About the why and the when,
Coinkydinkly
Shifting to Tronno Before
Ditching Old Eli,
Claiming November had nought
To do with said acts,
And while bestselling the book
Written 'fore the run,
That which both terrifies and
Kindles hope, eyes now
Opened, reading the same walls,
Become shocked by the
Way this once-hero faltered,
While at the same time
Pondering if this is how
It worked in the past,
Upon the realization
Of horror brewing,
A great sense of betrayal
Arose between those
Who bore the capacity
In opposition
To those who either could not
Afford to, had no
Connections, or wanted to
Simply stay and fight
The vicious, hatemongering
Tyrant—still, until
The repeat of history,
Comparison is
Nothing more than that, so might
It be jealousy
At best, that can explain such
Disdain for the man,
Or is self-preservation
The only sane act
When facing pending crisis?
Will memory serve to shame?
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Will mere shame even suffice?