Last Train Out

The inmost spark in a man, has no shape.
Its mostly smothered by the ruckus raised
when mental auto-pilot, can't escape
from demons loosed, when Captain Cool flies dazed.

Our daytime brain is hypno'ed by the stress
it gleans from fearing what might come to pass.
We let reactions run, which makes a mess
that just compounds, then Hydra bites our ass!

We copied those around us, as we grew,
and learned, in spades, to slide, and lie, and preen.
Our chaperones were Greed and Fear. Both knew
just how to twistify, what lay between.

Imagining becomes a refuge for
wastrels with an underpowered will.
Coping schemes derive from childhood lore.
Left untransformed, they'll steer one off a hill.

No emphasis can overstress the dread
and shock, all men will know when tasting doom.
Lightless in the smogs of gloom, one's head
and heart die meaningless, to never bloom.

Ones character is shaped from birth to death,
perhaps pre-life and after. But its clear;
to stall there's little point in drawing breath.
The mystic states divine, are richly dear.