They stare in hopes that their words might mean something
if their eyes remain long enough for the hidden truth to seep through
and their fingers feebly touch something, a caress in fear that no answer is to come.
Their fears... Their fears,
they are about to come true.
There is no answer in words seeking the truth;
there is none.
There is no room for theology in reality,
no room for praying on knees to something that does not touch
But strangles every breath.
Here in this land which we live, there is no room for blind belief,
you have to know, you need proof.
They stare at cryptic words that can mean anything depending.
Depending on the weather, depending on the sin,
there is no right answer
just assumptions to carry against your chest.
The words are not truth...
just petty dreams thrown to the sky in attempt
for someone to reach up and grasp them,
make them a reality.
