Cubit

Dreams that have died, fertilize wishes and wants
that all too soon will rot, and die. Clever
the mind, that instigates a Renaissance,
and brings new buzz into the hive. No lever

pull will drop salve blessings on pained souls,
nor fervent prayer has ever moved a thing.
Not a cubit. As entropy controls
decay, is there a force brought on command

that bring on Goodness as a psychic balm?
The question posed, is mostly asked by one
with heldout hopes an outer God will calm
his teapot storm, before he comes undone.

A focal tool exists, that seperates our sense
of self from plots in which we're caught.
Employing this, provides a good defense
to see just what we are, and what we're not.

Remembering ourselves is at the base
of all we do. Calling oneself to wake
by Inner Stop, creates that place where Grace
is natural. With Paradise at stake,

the keenest eye is requisite, in spades!
Almost every minute, we're occupied,
just drooling in the sleep mahine's charades,
that go on all around. When every tide

brings round a rotten froth, it's do or die.
Inside the head, and out beyond the eyes,
a total change of mission is sought, whereby,
one consciously works on self to recognize

the clockwork truths that transform how we read
Life's elements, to learn just how we fit.
The speed of this is very slow, indeed.
It's breath to breath, slogging up the summit.

A resurrected human being awake,
can glimpse the mystic transdimensional
mirrorball, and know beyond mistake,
that every doctrine is delusional.