I’ve followed every voice
that dared to ask why.
From Socrates,
who stripped truth naked with questions,
to the devil himself,
who asked them where angels wouldn’t.
Wisdom isn’t holy.
It’s hungry.
It walks through temples and taverns,
burns its fingers on forbidden light,
and still reaches back for more.
If the price of knowing
is to fall from grace,
then let me fall
with my eyes open.
Because every spark of truth
I’ve stolen from the dark
still burns like a star
in my chest.
—Vazago d’Vile
Oct 21, 2025
Oct 21, 2025 at 8:39 AM UTC
I’ve followed every voice
that dared to ask why.
From Socrates,
who stripped truth naked with questions,
to the devil himself,
who asked them where angels wouldn’t.
Wisdom isn’t holy.
It’s hungry.
It walks through temples and taverns,
burns its fingers on forbidden light,
and still reaches back for more.
If the price of knowing
is to fall from grace,
then let me fall
with my eyes open.
Because every spark of truth
I’ve stolen from the dark
still burns like a star
in my chest.
—Vazago d’Vile
This poem is a confession of curiosity — the hunger that refuses to bow.
From Socrates to the Devil, it’s not a trail of corruption but of courage: the will to ask why even when the price is exile.
Knowledge isn’t holy, because holiness fears doubt.
It’s hunger that makes us human — and maybe divine.
Every fall, every forbidden question, is just another spark returning to its source.
