by Adam Hannah

If the brightest of minds of generations were so foolish, then why are we certain?

If their moral codes had abbhorent flaws, are we so pure?

Remember those predictions,

Of ’14, ’28, ’38, ’06

Are we so sure?

As certainty rises, loosen the shackles on your doubts

There is always something hidden.

In the models, and the scriptures,

Something missing.