Tornado

Boxed and mechanical, describes the cookie cutter brains
that overflow communities of earth. Conformity is King.
It's minions abdicate their 'Gracial inheritance' for domains
where questions don't get asked, and no one knows a thing.

These brainiacs think they know already, all there is to know.
They do not know, that they're a part of something eyes can't see,
that only skillful thinking and rock resolve, can bring to show.
Having neither, they burrow deeper in their loopy fantasies.

When we arrive at Death's celestial door, no matter what waits,
Consciousness and solid Will, that's honestly acquired,
is either welcome, or best arrayed for challenging the Fates.
It's super likely we'll reappear, before our Soul's retired.

Unless you're Donald Trump, productive work on Self will generate
a lasting quality that translates to better days beyond the bend.
Though amusing, roaring days of wine and song corrupts one's fate,
and often hastens a bleak and worthless immemorial end.

Too much devotion is worse than none at all. We make
ourselves a partner in discovering the divine frontier.
Self-obsessed Tornados of 'ME', the Clingons here forsake
finding their identity in Goodness and Grace. They live in fear

of tortured whispers left from the devastation they've wrought,
deploying their ficticious selves. We are not a wingman,
we have no gold or grain to give. The only thing we've got
is pride and arrogance, to bring to everything we can,

plus insolence to toxify everything we touch. To sacrifice
all that makes us Frankenstein, should be our holy goal.
As is, we are not fit to Ever pay the Pearl's price.
nor learn the road to Paradise, runs through the Soul.