I crave for tidal waves to penetrate my psyche.
But dullness of the truth is less than likely
to drop a shadow on the wall of Plato's cave,
and rightly so.
The benign visage of screaming slaves -
a daedal symphony that shivers lightly
above the headstones of the graves
of sleeping intellects - dissolves politely.

I saw the horse that found its way into their dreams.
It shook its mane and then, I swear, grew wings!
The certainty of disbelief is more then I can bear.
I lost my head to misanthropes of putative despair.
Conformity subsides their livid screams.
They mouth Voltaire, while nursing self-esteem.

So blame utopia for being too delusive…
Yet in your eyes, Sacher-Masoch would find de Sade abusive.

The horse was only an excuse, but I feel lucky
that he chose me to be his headless jockey!