We wake up in a body with a mind
a long time before learning to be kind,
infested by the tapeworms of the soul,
the ones whose present was a lump of coal
who spark up flames within you feed/enjoy
or don't, flames they enjoy and which destroy,
flames which destroyed them when they walked the Earth,
though in externals they displayed their worth.
We wake amid the shambling bodies here,
the waking personalities we near
with language and with action, knowing not
if in between their ears they are a bot
or not. So much depends on watching minds
for enemy behaviours of all kinds,
on seeing from more inwardly with love,
the charity of conscience from above.
The flood of infestations bridle men
who know not they've been taken for a spin.
The flood of evil thoughts whose wily wang
competeth not with joy; its oily tang
distinguished from our good thoughts, actions, goals.
Beneath Good's bridge lurk shadows, shambling trolls,
ships shipwrecked far from cozy hearths, firm shores.
No organ of our bodies, these are sores,
these piercing thoughts of deadened reprobates –
the nagging emphasis on one it hates --
known as intrusive thoughts to people now.
You're never quite alone behind your brow.
The thoughts of reprobates that flood your head,
perhaps distressed insomniac in bed,
perhaps amid torn turmoil of bright day
in shadowy recesses on the way
comprise the fiery trial which tempts your soul,
the great flood and what time the Jordan's swole,
the 40 days and nights of Jesus' fast,
the 40 years the Church of Sinai passed,
the Red Sea that destroyed all Pharaoh's host
through which the Israelites from coast to coast
proceeded like the house built on the rock
through fiery flood which purifies the flock.
