Within these bars of time, no God of powers
enacts His wizardry, rewriting scripts
for dead men's lives. The fantasy is ours.
This opus-myth of tidy lies our lips
invent, obscures the inexplicit way
a clean break from this dreamer's jail occurs.
From fear and laziness the truth falls prey
to wishes, while the outbound pathway blurs.
Who wants to work redeeming Karma's bite?
or challenge silly pleasure's wreck of mind?
Who wants to stand alone, hallowing 'right'
and watch few care, as witless dung's enshrined.
It's conscious eyes that understand the deuce,
how death and life already made the truce.