I may not overcome; I may not eat
of hidden manna. Why must it be hid?
The god of sacred secrets is replete
with obfuscated wisdom in a bid
to give the priests an ever-shifting shroud,
the power to proclaim un-changing god,
to catch the lamb who’s straying from the crowd,
and bend the word they call an iron rod.
The preacher’s been removed, the signs abased;
the garment’s white which once was scarlet red.
What more will be revealed, what more replaced
before the living learn they too are dead?
I have no stone of white, no name that’s new,
but I can still discern what’s right and true.