Master

Crown or horns, it matters not.
They circle round your brow in spiral menace.
Let those who fear you tremble.
Pleading sounds of sheep.

While those who see you plain raise glass in silent understanding.

I drink deep of that bittersweet cup.
The price of knowledge is innocence lost.
Knowing the gears are oiled with blood.

Woe to him that proclaimed himself, Master!
Woe and gnawing pain, is his to drink deep.
The more he pleads, the more he bleats.

Servant to the very thing he has sworn conquered.
Broken by the same yoke he claims to bind others.

Crown and horns, like illusions, rot.
They circle round his brow in thorny penance.
Let those who fear him tremble.
Pleading sounds of sheep.