Each Man Is Killed by the Thing He Loves

By Reece Sellers-Mitchell

He always ate an apple before bed,

Before one sent him to an immortal sleep.

A genius who took a leap, found dead

The drugs would always keep his mind weak.

He stopped his suffering through cyanide’s might,

And went freely into that Good Night.

He was the paradigm of a persecuted man.

His infamy did fan the flame

Guilty of the crime, both “indecent” and “insane”,

The love that cannot speak its name.

The choice was castration or imprisonment

He forwent any family to cement

His place in history, with no chance of a son

He had his work to be his legacy

He is the scientist sent

To sleep by an insidious intent,

After society’s torment.

The world is now deprived ,

Of one more innocent.

A martyr driven to suicide

How we view him, we decide.

The chemicals of his experiments released,

His search for knowledge may have made him deceased.

Was it merely chance that this war heroes’ lance did fall,

An accident may have answered Death’s persistent call.

We may want to view him as a victim

As a sinned against man

Rather than his death as Nature’s whim

Ending his future plans

I’d like to remember the scientist

Who carried on despite

His troubles and strife,

He will be missed because of this

As it is unknown, we can view

Him as one of the tortured many,

Or as one of the resilient few

Who held his head high

And through something

He loved, he came to die

He played a vital role amongst the war effort’s totality,

And it is by this that he gains immortality.

So for his impact that is ever enduring,

I commemorate Alan Turing.