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Conscious awakening in the deep sense,
is brought on by a Science, with real rules.
Waking equals priceless recompense
worth more than Lotto, stocks, and royal jewels.
Earnest work within these laws, can mean immense
discoveries, new ways of thought, and tools.

One starts this by a lifetime overhaul
of Self's machinery. Wrong wiring, worn gears
and grit combine, to slow growth to a crawl.
One's pace depends on inner eyes and ears

being taught to think in terms non-linear.
A rigorous revetting, of access
and control to realms of one's interior,
must be invoked. A lessening of stress

creates new energies, to amp the cause
of soul arousal. Habits, sloth and pride
insure we never waken, nor fix the flaws
that feed one's questing spirit, cyanide.

Bad habits, like blind machines, repeat
the same approach to everything, Shocks irk
our Being, and so, must meet complete defeat,
while you, from now till curtains, must do work.

The inner universe comes to us skewed
and queer, so most, beneath their pious veneer
are long on huff and bluster, and not shrewd
with ways of change. Life's rigors are severe,
and when we loaf and coast, our fortitude
and force of mind dry up and disappear.

For clueless ones, who choose to stay interred
in false Persona's soul-less zombie yard,
eternity is blurred, and seems absurd.
Stiff frozen views make bloom of Being, hard.

Like icebergs whose vast bulk is undersea.
so too, float minds of men, 9/10ths asleep.
If this place satisfies your needs for glee,
then once per loonies moon, I'll toast Bo Peep!

Our Spirit is an instrument designed
offsite, for more than tic-tac-toe. When tuned,
to certain resonance, one's heart and mind
are justified, then glorified. To be marooned

in decadence, while angels oversoar,
is black as charcoal sin, and means you'll die
neck deep in rot and offal, fixed to the floor,
adoring, though in vain, the deep blue sky.