"A dream within a dream", describes this place
of birth and death, Poe said. And from inside,
like puppets in hypnotic trance, men base
their sense of worth upon a shifting tide
of wreckage caught in ocean's endless chrun.
A treasure of true goodness waits just out
of reach, rewarding those who'd seek to learn
the truth of what their inner life's about.

Whatever owns your focus, steers your thoughts.
As well, the springpool of your conscious mind
is doled to Ego's goons, who foment plots
which work to overthrow you from behind.
Constant re-arousal must be imposed.
We fall asleep, and dream that we're awake.
At every turn, our inner eyes go closed.
With will as mushy as a wafflecake,

we lack the clout to repossess our brain.
Unless a man intends a full reform,
he'll stay an insect to the end. No sane
earth ape would void his chances to transform
the fortunes of his tender inmost soul.
A stern regime of work on self. must trade
its place with habit's crap to oust the troll.
It's do or die time, Start this last crusade!