If the Foot Fits
Not remembering ourselves, should light up our alarm.
Bring yourself aware and take a photograph. This little look
and silent moment is a paradigm. Before we buy the farm,
we need a zillion every day, to wall away the schnook
who, in our name, spouts a load things about imaginary stuff.
A jerk-off stupid clown meanders through our darker mists,
and wastes our time and drains our fuels, and spouts fake news and guff.
Unless we take the steps to wake, his interupts persist.
One is one's love. It's quality is derived from truthful turns
of mind, consistently present and aware. Shortburst, low amplitude,
and diffuse, describes anemic love that barely burns in rude
distracted souls who worship worthless things. A soul, that learns
there is a purpose for one's work on Self, is set to fight
for that which boosts what's Good in him; to shatter his shell and shout!
Like panning gold, The dross and dreck of Life is filtered out,
until the nuggets shine. Across the universe, starlight
from a trillion twinkles, says "Here too; the Way, the Truth, the Life."
No one finds the Good One, except through rebirthing his sense
of ME. With brains of fiction, men strut about spreading strife,
exempting themselves from blame, at everyone's expense.
In lieu of learning, work, and growth to steel the seekers spine,
most people coast along, gorged on low fruit. They think the 3D
outer world, is all there is that matters, and the Great Divine
is phonier than climate change. Ramshackle souls can see
phenomena, but can't draw meaning, except the very least.
Flat brains and hardened hearts endure a life devoid of Grace,
because they think they know stuff that they really don't. They feast
on bread and water, and brag they're eating steak. No hint or trace
of anything that nutrifies, lights up their sparkless eyes.
If there is a better way, the masses need it now,
as time can be unkind to those asleep in their disguise,
who dream there is escape to Light, but never wonder how.