Anatomy of a Swindle

When men transcend Persona's trance, a different world awaits,
where 'How' we see determines 'What' we see. A gutter bum discerns
the same blue sky as does the billionaire. Regardless how the fates
create such variance, beneath it all the infinite still churns.

Sub-atomics dance in meaningful moves beyond the mammal brain.
Few grasp the depths this smoking gun confirms beyond a doubt,
that men are neither center stage, nor star. Fat heads don't contain
a nickel's worth of what sustains the Will to learn what life's about,

much less an inkling of the cosmic Chain of Being. The rude
and final truth is that we navigate alone, and steer
the vessel of our soul. If we mess up, we're really screwed!
Rough winds and seas, sharp rocks and siren calls, help us veer

off any course, our half a brain might chart. Without a stout
offense to meet impediments, the world's onrushing flood
of teetering imperatives, soon eliminate all doubt
that one can face an endless uphill slog without dragon's blood,

and certain knowledges, which change the ways we greet what comes.
Results from this appear in time, on our side of the line.
This limits the scurrilous, the posers and other spiritual bums
from bringing smog to virgin realms of purest Light Divine.

The life machine transacts in codes and motions, from above
our threshhold of sense and certainty. Our perch to face the flow
of time, can be all wrong to gain profound success or love.
Unless we find a way to re-prioritize what we know,

all things that matter stay frozen in place. Some people see
their days on earth were meant for more, 'than brawl for bread, breed
your kind, then curtains'. They know a discontent, spiritually.
They sense that they themselves must change, in order to succeed

at meeting what is needed. Those whose only mode of intellect
is sensual, are blind to inner mysteries whose heart
holds elements both eternal and exquisite. To not connect,
brings failure to ancestral energies, of which we're part.