'Me's' a fictive catch-all, that has no root to the Divine.
A stash point for Persona's grandios and greedy claims,
'Me's' other game is fragile victim, and zounds, can that boy whine,
and sing the blues! A charlatan and thief, who quickly blames
his crimes on those nearby, and deftly dishes doubt and guilt.
Hair triggered temperment and stingy like a Wall Street shark,
Me's snark pervades its darkness. Me would send a Peterbilt
to crush all fools who trifle. Me always act's the monarch,
until some scary thing beams him back to C P 3 0.
Me gripes and snipes and preens, and plots and schemes like Snow White's witch.
but has no force, as he's not real. Not unlike a puppet show,
Me's strung from strings, but struts about and lies without a twitch
of conscience or remorse. A gossip and a snitch, Me's more
a sad misuse of rare materials given us at birth. Life's flow
of inner thought and outer acts, seen thru a tiny door,
deprives the viewer of a wider deeper way to Know.
Consciousness is elbow room and clarity to grip
and grasp all happenings, so Me is obsolete, except
for things like joy and awe. Unfit for these until one strips
the crap from Me, Life's awesome promised purpose will be kept.