Tote that Bale, Lead Ass

Slackjaws don't run jackhammers, and loafers don't lift weights.
Pedestrian low consciousness will never elevate
beyond mundanity. No drive to cultivate the traits
required for more than getting by, exempts one from a fate

that brings a chance to break the trance. This failure causes souls
to harden into stone, and life become a pointless cul-de-sac.
Interior prospection can herald a world beyond these shoals.
The uninspired miss the clues to find the mystic track

that leads to deeper, denser states of being aware.
They cannot share reciprocal concepts with the woken Ones,
nor are they destined for, at death, the same upturning stair.
As energy does not disperse, but changes form, the sons

of men depart their bones, appearing where appropriate.
Though no one knows, some feel a scale of some sort weighs what's left,
to then determine what goes where. I'm betting that the traits
of pride and vanity, greed and sloth carry extra heft,

of the unwanted kind. A sense for structure and good math,
go a long way when trying to visualize what can't be seen.
One's faith applied at given junctures in the search for Path,
is nothing like the wholecloth cloroform brainwash machine

that all religions foist on lazy men. Belief can be a tool
that bridges certain kinds of quandaries, but not a cure
to calm folks with a thought resistant brain. Worse than a mule,
Persona squats upon the road, refusing to abjure,

and let the mind recieve incoming life without a spin.
Without a quest in motion to reclaim the energies
mis-spent by Ego's many thieves, changing won't begin,
and what you have that's worth a damn, will shrivel up and seize.