Pitchfork

Quit looking for the accolades. All dreams of being FatCat
should be dead last, for those who truly want to raise their Being.
No way aping Trump will gain Nirvana's welcome mat.
Lust for power and fame offends, and sends the angels fleeing.

We barely comprehend that higher laws hold sway complete,
and spin the galaxies, before we humans came along.
As life-forms go, on Earth we're tops. Beyond this smug conceit,
you reckon there are Beings many times more cognizant and strong?

This endless universe contains stars beyond a count. Of those,
many have proven planets. The liklihood is vast that some
are host to things miraculous, whose gifts would make a man depose
his puppet king, and feel humility (for once). A slum

inhabited by garbage rats and roaches, exists behind facades,
many people wear. To stoke self-love, they'd stoop to burn
an orphanage. Locked in their trance, they sleep and worship gods
of stone. Protecting lies and dirty deeds, they spurn to learn

the alphabet to calculate the glory of the stars at night.
A craven attitude toward treading strait and narrow paths
which lead to plush and knowing Light, assures a Life of secret fright,
unworthiness and shame, which drums up deep and poisonous wrath.

All of us are in a fix. All are called, but few escape
to carry on their search for Grace throughout the universe.
The rest revisit lesser places, where they'll work to reshape
their ethos and malfeasancy, before they hit the hearse.