Socrates: Like ourselves, I replied; and they see only their own shadows, or the shadows of one another, which the fire throws on the opposite wall of the cave?

Socrates: And if they were able to converse with one another, would they not suppose that they were naming what was actually before them?  

Socrates: To them, I said, the truth would be literally nothing but the shadows of the images. 

Socrates: And now look again, and see what will naturally follow if the prisoners are released and disabused of their error. At first, when any of them is liberated and compelled suddenly to stand up and turn his neck round and walk and look towards the light, he will suffer sharp pains; the glare will distress him, and he will be unable to see the realities of which in his former state he had seen the shadows; and then conceive some one saying to him, that what he saw before was an illusion,

      Like everyone I wonder, wonder why life is with out clear purpose; sure one can feel content, but that can’t shake the lack of purpose in this world. This makes you wonder, is there more, like Socrates hypothesized, what if we find ourselves slave to this reality we call life. Though scientifically improbable, it is quite an interesting concept, and this poem reflects on the idea of escaping that reality; taking the thoughts and Socrates and creating poetry. Seeing the truth and truly feeling that sense of purpose that this crude world and way of living. I had wanted to try doing the original book by Plato, so I decided to take a shot at, and see how I would do.