The sanctimonious always demand agreement,
as weakened souls cave in appeasement.
Their neural networks truncate from doubt,
when reality searches for anyway out.

Drifting in abandonment on a sea of kelp
all demanding souls cry out for help.
Weave them a thread of love with cajole,
spin a yarn embedded with hyperbole.

And as the lost cling to a flimsy web of lace
praying to him that is seen without face,
their sheer nerve tears through the cloth,
for in the darkness they seek light like a moth.

Life often beaded on a thin cord
spins pearls of wisdom none can afford.
For if truth were so easily obtained,
then questions would not set us aflame.

The truth is what it always was
man's beliefs interspersed with flaws.
So seek not for answers to questions unknown;
lest the answers leave us all feeling dethroned.