Hand Finish

The universe spreads fourteen billion years from the Big Bang.
'Light years',as a concept, baffles twits, who don't know yin from yang.
Six trillion miles per year! And even that, zooms past their ken.
A micro fraction of this time, Earth's been the home for men

of modern form. The evolution of their shape and brain
has grown sophisticated through the eons. The reason why
is anybody's guess, but we exist within a strange domain,
underpinned by cosmic laws which act unseen, thereby

nailing down the notion, that we're part of something vast
and *&@%! powerful. We are machines, with names. Dead last
to know that we're asleep, we strut about to point and shout,
opining endlessly, but numb to what Life's really all about.

Through the senses, the Instruments of Mind, touch outdoor things
while Consciousness commands all inner realms. A state of Grace
connects these two, which most don't see. A metaphor of 'wings'
but half conveys the joy, when sober eyes behold this Promised Place.

Life can become more meaningful, but one must want it bad.
Someone or thing like Hercules, must be kept in your sight,
because the work to find Oneelf, can make you crazy sad,
and shred your shorts, a tad. You are the Way, the Truth, the Light,

and sad to say, your only Hope. If you can't raise a bone,
to care about your own divine unfoldment, stay in Hell.
To separate the wheat from chaff is not about what's sown.
but more about the knowledge which no devil can dispel.