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Poem

You can lead a horse to water, but you can't make him drink
You can present a man with evidence, but you can't make him think.
You can push a rock up a too steep slope
You keep sliding back, and you're at the end of your rope

It's not that they're stupid, they might have a degree.
Is just that they get wrong what can and can't be.
One sticking point, where the water can't flow
and truth drowns desperate in the undertow.

We have our fixed points, and thoughts anchor there
Some points are solid, some are on shaky air
But the current of thoughts resonate in the bands
Hard to jump across valleys, run in the sands.

I had a dream of horses that I had to corral
I started optimistic but lost my morale.
I whistled and waved, tried reason, tried rope—
But they scattered like rebels, success beyond hope.

There's a crowbar of reality; it can pry open the door
But how much suffering must occur, how much failure before?
Being wrong is inevitable, it isn't a crime
But the hourglass is empty, its long past time.

We're surrounded by noise; we're surrounded by lies
And when truth appears, it's often in disguise
We all pick our sources, analogies, our filtering rules
If we pick the wrong ones, we do damage as fools.

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