It isn't that I live among holy men, But among men of means and contradiction. Their words are not written with a pen So their meaning is left open to interpretation.
It isn't that I don't have time to read, But my attention span seems so poor. There is much knowledge that I need, But wisdom and truth elude me even more.
It isn't that I live in a desert bare, But where there is plenty of everything so near. Where satisfaction seems hard to obtain, even rare, And words of comfort are not always clear.
It isn't that I speak in riddles three, But a story unfolds in lines of rhyme. Only in a few minds is the truth free. For most, it remains hidden in time.