by Gustave Dore (via Wikipedia)
Madmen on the march
Clones de la Mancha
Pouring through the arch
Lacking lingua franca
Seeking common thrills
An army of sham knights
Tilting at windmills
With more pride than fight
It’s not a sickness of the brain
that scripts this lunatic life.
It’s chasing the sanction of “sane”
that breeds this stream of strife.
[Note: A poem on the hilarity of defining sanity as the recognition of reality. As if any of us knows what’s real in a meaningful sense. Sanity is being able to pretend you know what’s real with sufficient confidence to avoid grinding against society’s sensitive spots.]