Slaves of fugacious muddles
Workings of the mind
Fixed as sandy puddles,
Dyed-in-the-wool brutes of burden
Of tyrannical carnality
And sterile earthliness,
Traveling terrain oozing
With grisly deathliness.
Learning that is of the senses
And of the world, devious is...
Of infectious, malign abyss...
Injuries cause, and begetter of loss.
Antagonistic will to the Source,
Galloper in tedious, restricted plane,
Outlander to roseate remorse,
Enslaved as a circus horse.
Be found in deepest sorrow
Over near morrow
Over thought that trains
For ruinous tepidity
And passions obscurity,
Stranded on the ground
Of lifeless, lethal defiance,
Partaking of poison of fleshiness,
Having no worthy notion
Of His magnificence, of His mightiness,
Unshielded from foes malicious, venomous
Abandoning the sense of wrong and right
Looking in vain for halcyon delight,
Evading to dwell in His Presence,
As a gem... a peerless gift...
Ensnared in dry as a bone pasture
Of the Me Dacade, empathy's fade,
Illusive wide world made.
Polluted by each omission
To act or speak,
Irretrievable loss, wasteful defeat,
Stuck in the lot of impotent fury
Stamping of feet, gnashing of teeth.
(And, the demon stands big-headed
In its upper hand - grand slam
By each sin - its decayed toothless grin,
Evil spirit inflated in its outright win.
For what can be brought
By phased, worldly-minded thought?
What is worth the thought
Of the one in whose heart
Dark demons devised a plot?)
On the wing of Dove...
Devoting time without ending
Enemies furious fending,
Engaged in worthy
Of battle and voyage thought
Whizzing to lofty mortification,
To a homeland of vindication,
On the wing of Dove,
Breaking the peace!
Combatant - dead to self...
In sublimity of God
Absorbed, resorbed, reabsorbed...
To the finish, to the death fought...