The Steppenwolfs' stepson
no stranger to the strange,
strangled in thought
and a raving wonder,
was the custom of his gaze.
The specter of Mozart's laughter
bellowed loudly,
lamping light on every cloud,
the dawn of every day,
could be trestled in his smile.
Flirting with divine perfection,
ceaselessly,
ruminating in awe,
of his sublime imaginings
nesting soundly in his noose
wolf of the steppes, man or immortal
