Is truth now a muddy thing?
Is that how we prefer it to be?
Is truth a muddy clay
ready to be shaped ‘til it pleases me?

Is truth now a muddy thing
thick and deep, hiding what's beneath?
Designed to hide my face
as I seek a private relief?

Is truth now a muddy thing,
wet, heavy, gritty and cold?
Can I scrap it off my boot,
leave it outside my safe threshold?

Is truth now a muddy thing,
slowing me wading ashore?
Immune to curses and stumbles,
dragging me to the floor?

If truth is now a muddy thing
can I filter it and sieve?
Is there pure clear truth that's not been eroded?
Will I still find true truth within?