Eye on the Ball
In this go-round, its likely that we'll never know pure Grace,
though some have claimed a glimpse. Irrelevant, of course.
Our only business here is work to scrape clean every trace
of habit poop and puppet string, that keeps us from our Source
To an oak tree, chain yourself. Now tug and jerk all you want.
Pray and wish, or anything else, this mighty tree won't tip.
The wrong idea doesn't work. It shouldn't take a great savant
to figure out another way to fell it. This time we'll skip
the chain, and find a sawing tool. If ones shed is bare
the situation turns, to illustrate the same
exists, regarding our proximity to where
and what we must achieve to keep and reach a holy Aim.
For sure, one Must come to know that there's a higher plane
coexisting quietly beyond our meager senses.
We're almost wholly blind to Grace, and half insane.
Preoccupied with pissant points of view, with pretenses,
and crooked reckonings, disqualifies other modes
of Being and Awareness, from almost ever being seen.
The sleeping hordes are comatose, and much like full commodes,
unflushable! There is no flow that brings new tools to clean
up wreckage from the lies we tell. Psychic squalor is real,
awaiting someone with a shovel and an axe to hack
up shambles left from plying wrong ideas cooked by a quack.
In time, old thoughts and ways will petrify, beyond repeal.