Steppenwolf

This poem always existed somewhere in my head. It knocked and knocked, but I could not turn the doorknob (like my first metaphysical/e.t. experience, 24 years ago).

You could have once called me Steppenwolf

A wayward drifter, a misanthrope

I even tried this and that kind of dope

But the God within was much swifter

And pulled me up from the end of my rope

I had to walk through the door of the theater

"For Madmen Only," read the prominent sign

Mad as result of the madness of the times

Crimes and misdemeanors, brother against brother

Treating each other like perfect strangers

The hour is getting late, my dears

To know from where you derive your power

It is everywhere and nowhere

In the balance it hangs

It all depends on you because you matter

Admittance to the theater requires this:

You have to admit you don't belong, that you are a fish out of water

That this world's values seem foreign and strange

That you claim this madness with all humility

Before you become completely deranged

Now you realise it was just a game

You either figure it out or become fodder

It is the selfless self above all else

Like being a martyr, even for pigs and fish

To influence and elevate even one fulfills God's wish