It must be lonely to be right about everything,
To be aware of all the faults of design,
To see around all the corners,
To know the end of a sentence before it’s spoken.
It is a thankless task to blot out surprise,
To insist on an end to all mystery,
To whittle down everything to innocuous ends.
Walling oneself off behind religious precepts
Must be excruciatingly frustrating
With the world refusing to conform
To dictates narrowed down to remove all doubt.
Certainty is a futile pursuit
Given the finite nature of human design,
But then again, I suppose,
You would have done that different, too.
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