You meddling morons—mighty in your sway—
Leave me to thoughts that are, and shall be, mine;
Grounded in light that purest truth conveys,
Not some contrived illusion from a shrine.
You cannot will a falsehood into truth,
Nor paint pitch-black as fair celestial white;
Proclaim you’ll purge the world of timeless ruth
Or turn all moral darkness into light.
What godly creed declares what’s best for man?
What dogma dares set limits on the soul,
Presuming yet how one should think—and when?
Each dictum but subversive overthrow.
The witless weak your cunning lies enchain
But men of steadfast truth shall rise again.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.