The inmost spark in a man has no shape.
It can't be found by scalpel or sledge.
It does exist, but where? A full escape
from this rude and awkward Truth, rebuffs a wedge.
Beliefs are like painted glass panes
affixed to brick. Countless headaches
owe their nauseous throb, to brow-bashed brains,
incurred when Truth jammed on the brakes!
No man knows whereof he emanates,
and yet, acts like it were patently clear.
If you don't know what teeth, the fates
have stashed in wait, to fang your dear
sweet rear, does it sound wise to fake
and spout you know what Life's about?
No doctrinal rule-set can shake awake,
or grant one's Soul and Spirit, clout.
The force it takes to turn the mind
toward the Light of Conscious Grace,
derives from working to unblind
and liberate that Holy place,
where what's divine about us, romps
and roars and has its root. The swamps
we'd wish to quit are far too wide.
No act of Will can be applied
to make this come to pass. One way
alone, will get you gone beyond
the yucky muck and endless fray,
and that's to own the wrongs you've spawned,
and self-appoint new rules, you will obey.