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Poem

Part of the denominator, 
extraordinary matters level off 
and find the lowest trough. 
The so-called experts 
joust with the pretenders, 
and they are wrestling still. 

In days of yore the Seer 
would proclaim the truth, 
accepted by the old, the youth, 
whereas for now we do His will. 
Are we shackled, are we freer, 
hungrily our mouths to fill? 

Time will not stand for surety, 
the prophet's exhortations gone to dust, 
while totems crumble, metals turn to rust, 
we try to compromise, a bitter pill 
for those who crave acerbity 
and swear our bliss to spill. 

Were we to strike good earth, 
avoid all roiling undulation, 
seek and hold a firm foundation, 
and ascend the highest hill, 
then would excellence be realized for what it's worth, 
and our hopes and dreams we would fulfill.

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