It has been said, " you're not the one you think
you are, but are the one who thought it."
Imagination dresses us in mink
and diamonds, though we're to our necks in shit.
The problem is, we can't address that which
we're not aware. Our sleeping lives slide by,
while we pretend we're beautiful and rich.
We watch the upper class in silks glide by,
and then compare ourselves. Every wrong
bandito, ie. envy, shame, and pride...
ensnares our energies. We slouch along
transfixed, and sharpen knives of green-eyed
psycho wrath, while wracked by secret fears.
A tool set, guaranteed to change the way
the flow of life gains entrance and appears,
may be accessed, but solely, pay for play.
One's best idea of one's self, has to go.
The whole hot enchilada needs Big Fix!
That snarky You, that one you think you know,
is the true cause of all the dirty tricks
that keep you bumping walls, and this won't heal.
Venereal diseases can be cured, but not
the plague Persona spreads. A grim ordeal
awaits that one who doesn't give a thought
to this. The treasures lost are off the chart,
and meaningful in ways beyond ones brain
has grip or grasp. Perhaps, in mind and heart,
good Souls evolve to join a cosmic chain
that links to worlds above our grade of pay.
For sure, no bright one wants to pass from Earth
with bloods of other's broken hopes in play,
if Judgement day might really guage our worth.
Nobody knows, and least of all, those fools
who think they do, what fate awaits us all.
Sixty billion galaxies, like jewels
spread out in sprawl, should humble and enthral
any ditz with half a brain. Instead, most sleep
and slam about like bumper cars. One's fate
is real, and hangs on whether one can keep
a forward roll toward one's Soul's estate.