A man whose works are for the world's eyes,
inwardly roams a box devoid of doors.
The pride he wears, in truth, is a disguise
beneath which hides a phoney whom ignors
the same humanity from which he rose.
Napolean set out to banish kings,
but then became the emperor. Same clothes,
new name. To reach influences that bring
transformative control to oxen wits,
one must divest oneself from Mr. Jones
with all his hooks and grabs, and call it quits
with surface glitz, then focus from one's bones.
One task per man, the cosmos does assign:
to find that door which opens on Divine.