A Cynic's Mask
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I often wear the mask of a cynic.
My being is tuned into lampooning.
Perhaps it's because I've come to despise
The pale light of monotonous actors.
I'm not content with shadow plays.I want
To feel the shining presence all around me.
O how long must one endure the futile
Choruses of hysteria or, worse,
Still, the platitudes of empty praise?
The artist's boundless, sovereign soul is crushed,
Under society's cold steel, stifling wheels.
The prophet's burning words cannot be heard.
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