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 craziness.

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

Sacrosanct defending,

Enemies furious fending,

Engaged in worthy

Of battle and voyage thought

Whizzing to lofty mortification,

To a homeland of vindication,

Supernal liberation.

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...