Life is a journey with no plan.
We have rules without instruction,
No map or manual to guide our way.
We find our way by stories and fictions
Far from real; echoing the ancient past
But masking reason.
Old ideas, outdated or proven wrong
Or dubious time and time again, but
Rigidly clung to as fact;
Those clung to and coveted lies.
The truth is in flight and disgusted
By what occurs in its name;
It is a red kite, majestic and out of reach,
Soaring overhead. It’s beauty
And once proud plumage in tatters,
Yet it flies on. It’s mournful cry haunts us
Unheard by stubborn wilful deafness to all
But bronze ideas; smoke and mirrors:
A mirror shows us only what is in front of it
Yet what is seen is altered by belief.
Possessors of myth and legend blind to all
But the cold and empty shelter,
Stand, shrouded by ignorance
And demanding such undeserved respect.
Deceived by a maelstrom themselves,
They seek to pass deception on,
With Circular arguments,
Weak and brittle as a glass.
When finding their truths shaken, blame others
For refusal to go along and abandon reason,
Fiction digs its own cold grave
As spectators slowly walk away
Like dead leaves, blown across a path
Uncover the ground, and show the way.
Truth is waking from her long sleep
She is not dead