One Day a Worthy Move

instead of how to wash, and rules about what not to eat,
the psychological variant of Truth would be, 'to hate
is to murder.' At least two planes of thinking are discrete,
one high, one low. Low can't see high, but high Can look below.

This dichotomy describes the mind, seen from the side.
The lower tier is trivial, the upper tier profound.
Different energies appropriate to each, don't coincide
unless the upper tier should choose. The low can come around,

through ardent earnest effort, but all to often, detours
are made to long and costly wastes of time. Demoralized
enough, will break a soul. Recovering the path that's yours
can be a trial, that gets harder each time. Disorganized

and strewn with awkward obstacles, (attitudes from past
all-wrong attempts, when Ego tried to pass you off as real,)
must be excised to clear the jam, that blocks one from the vast
and mystic inner realms. Disbelief, by steathy tactics steals

the gold the miners dug, by robbing the ore bearing train.
It owes it's boss opinion to bribes and blackmail plied by
Persona's mechanical fingers. Masked as the voice most sane,
it steers what seeks the Truth, and shrugs when wonder dies.

The rabid nest of habitual vice, launches attitudes
and moods, to quell all fresh enterprise to wake.
To rid oneself of this god-awful mess, it takes a shrewed
and careful, earnest Soul to take control. One needs a rake

to scrape the soil and plant fresh wheat, then poised to whack the weeds.
Believing is a verb that happens in the here and now.
Beliefs are fixed like headstones, and only serve a dawdler's needs.
Lifeless rot, made when you thought that your invincible vow

could turn the tide, beliefs constrict the motions of free will.
No one knows a thing about what follows life on Earth,
and yet the giant share of folks, when shown this truth, are still
convinced their preacher knows what's best, and that his words are worth

remembering. If that were true, there'd be no point to life.
Nothing would change or bloom with fruit. Beliefs are a blind
for stalled and lesser minds, whose conscious grip is weak. The strife
that's brought when static pictures overlay a moving mind,

makes Hell on Earth. All wars and murders owe their violent root
to just this all-wrong take. It's only cure, begins by saying "Yes,
there's something missing from your life, and you don't know a hoot
of what it's seed here, could be." A work belief like this, can bless

time after time, when things become a mess. Humility's
a mode the soul employs, for parlance with the higher mystic realms.
It's not obsequious, but appropriate fidelity
to pure all-knowing Grace, should she choose to coach the helm.