At surface, life proceeds with minor frets,
and folks just go about their day. Without
immense concerns (except collecting debts),
men's ardor to achieve perfection's peaks
pathetically languishes in drought.
Our deeper doorways fade, as no one seeks
to stratify the 'relevance and cast'
of earthly incidents. Sherlock would shout,
" Wake up, you bog-hound gits! The time has passed
for rodent herds to celebrate their crumbs! "
When fate decrees your clock-ticks have run out,
if you are still a creature of your slums,
ie, bad habits rule your lazy brain,
and you could give a shit what life's about,
prepare yourself. A waterfall of pain
awaits those unresolved to resurrect
their elemental soul. To seek the route
of higher light elates the intellect.
No matter how well fixed we are with means,
imbued with riches glitz or power's clout,
spiritually, we're filthy pigs. Machines,
so rutted in our roles, we bitch and whine
at wisping wind, and buried to the snout
in drama's trough, forget that we're divine!