Blood is always red

What is truth, the ruthless Pilate said
Postmodern thought already on  display
Our eyes are blind  yet blood is always red

On the stairs at night, I heard the tread
Was it Satan marching on his way?
What is truth, the  tiresome Pilate said

I lay in anguish in my chilly bed
In the darkness deeper than the clay
Our eyes are blind  yet sometimes we see red

The images of terror in my head
What to do and more, what must I say
What is truth, the  tortured Pilate said

Why are spirits broken and love shed
Children tortured where they used to play
Our eyes are blind  and good is almost dead

Deconstructed, demonized, displaced
In the shadows who can see the way?
What is truth, the  stupid Pilate’s dead
Our eyes are blind, what is the good, we said