We can't escape or fix our problems, as we're the star of them.
Perfect we arn't, and yet we strut and pose like no bad act
was ever done by hands so clean. We blame, and then condemn
both left and right, while we justify, to keep our sham intact.
This little dance we do, pretending poop to be a fragrant rose,
fools everybody, as they do it, too. Expect no change today,
if every move and motion stays the same. We're deaf and comatose
when it comes to admitting this bogus robotic ballet.
Without shortcircuiting this zombie jig, we'll never shake
our buried aces loose. Our vetting needs an anti-viral patch,
that meets and treats incoming stuff. A stacked deck, custom rake
of sorts, inclines events, such that, we know to disattach
before the boiler blows. One's scrupulosity defines
and makes this tool. But since we live a lie, we are not fit
to fabricate. Attention and Resolve, over time, can fashion tines
that separate the wheat from chaff. A right diet, minus the grit,
makes for new kinds of primal growth, that blooms fresh green
in verdant vallies of one's Sight and Soul. The vain facade
of flawlessness that we perpetuate, is a curse to the keen
and honest eye that keeps our quest alert, on ground that's not been trod.
Paradise is not for pigs, shitty mud will do.
Nirvana's not for twits and prats, politics is their stew.
Heaven's lost it's shine for some, but draws calls chumps and fools.
Utopia's not stocked with bowls of fruit and gold and jewels,
but greedy pirates lurk, like camels expecting to storm
the place, by blasting through the needles eye. Real Shangri-La's
a threshhold, where conscious souls exceed their dead-brain norm,
and behold awesome energies beyond effect and cause.