Coma

Imaginings and appetites compete
with background noise, to break our wing.
A demon named mind-sleep pulls the nose ring
attached to yours, and drags your schnozz to meet

with turd-like treats. Most men live in the smogs
of soul-neglect. A soul delivers light,
and needs intelligent tending. These fogs
foul up its radar's reach, preventing flight.

Its hard enough to stick with one's intent,
but someone in the psychic entourage
is dragging feet to such ruinous extent,
his only game is surely sabotage.

Mind-sleep is death for seekers of Soul's door.
Attachments, addictions and sloth, spell out
curtains, for any quest looking to soar
and grasp more truth of what this life's about.

Not the sweet snooze of beddy-bye, mind-sleep
makes one's waking day a frickin' nightmare.
A form of self-command is sought to keep
old Freddy's fingers from your underwear.

More consciousnesss becomes the holy goal,
when looking to enhanse one's force of Will.
A focused Will will elevate the soul,
to re-tune and restore that old time thrill.

Religion, with a clear head, when bred
with ardor and a goal, would serve just fine
as model for foundation. Dogma's dead,
but that's no epitath for things divine!