Flawed

Social order, it is said
Is all around.
It gathers and it maintains
It is a truth to be found.
But I do not see it
Instead ghostly vapour
I find.
Not faith and reassurance
But dogma
Of a fatal kind.
There are promises
To reassure questioning folk
But they are vague and obscure;
A master’s joke.
History, written down,
Is flawed
And relays little account
Of what did be.
Instead it obfuscates
That eternal sea
Of wisdom gained.
I am but a gentle man
No one who can cast
A wiser warning than any other
And my words will never last.
But even I can see
The promises are flawed
And for those of more certain focus
Your vision is obscured.

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