Stuck between Gears

It's sure that some men's inner life, would sorely bore a saint.
A gutter pipe of cess and rancor, poisons the ambrosia spring,
that wells unseen, behind the eyes. Disdain, with an angry taint,
targets every good and hopeful thing, with it's cynical sting.

Those folks who stay unlearnt, prefer the negative and drear,
make rush to condemn, and issue smokescreen blame to hide
their own foul hand. Day after week, after month, after year,
and ever more absurd, they're less the Jeckyl and more the Hyde.

I wonder what's the point of such a life, but then recall,
A.A.'s 'there but for the grace of God go I.' My faults are mine
to fix, I have no time to reprimand another's gall.
There's plenty wrong with me that needs a battleline,

and squad of mind marines to war against the many trolls,
that devil forward progress. To realize just how poor you are,
behind your bull bravado, if you look deep you'll see your Soul
with Ego's parasites. Until one sees the truth about how far

away from what he thought he was, he'll not try hard enough
to shake the gravity of Persona's siren call. We are last place
on the scale of worthy things, because we worship stuff,
and tout ourselves as blameless. The flaw locker has no space

left, to store up lessons that won't get learned. Unless old things
die off, no changes come to ways we act and feel and think.
When one sees for himself, the things he does denies him wings,
he'll know his old ideas must be bulldozed off the brink.