The sending of the Stupid God will rage
Against the narrow confines of the cage,
But being out does not seem to assuage
The wrinkled citrus avatar its ire.
It seems instead to seek to build a pyre
And cast what many value into fire.
And, what is worse, so many think them cold--
They think them frozen solid by the mold--
That they think the destroyer is the bold
And follow mindless what they think is brave,
As if the wrinkled citrus one will save
Them. They still sit and stew in Plato's cave,
But fewer are the shadows on the walls.
No light can enter when outer night falls.