Stealers

Stealers

The heavy clay of earthbound flesh
Doesn't mesh
With the spirit that owns it.
Bad fit.

For the heavy clay has ideas of its own
To disown
The purposes the spirit has
And to surpass

With false goals and high skills.
It kills
What spirit knows it wants to do:
To be true.

Clay grabs power anywhere it can.
Inflated man.
Chunks of spirit long ago left behind
Do remind

Us of times when the creators of these skills
Used their wills
To fight the evil of that day and time.
Horrid crimes.

But somewhere in this struggle these parts were lost
AT great cost,
And stayed behind in confusion and awful trauma.
Unsolved karma.

So when a person sees them lying there,
So bare,
Precious gems of spirit in trauma quaking,
Free for the taking,

He steals them for himself and his own glory,
Horrid story,
And casts aside his own true and real goal,
Poor soul.

The world's in a constant fight over power,
Every hour.
And all are tempted to have skills never earned,
Or honestly learned.

Some steal from the dead and the alive,
To survive,
And claim these treasures solely as their own,
To use and hone,
Never once asking "Please" or "May I use?"
I'll just abuse.

So when you see a man of unusual skill,
Be still.
And ask if this really belongs to him,
His life and limb.

Did he struggle through his own past to learn
And discern
How to use this skill for wisdom to prevail
On a grand scale?

And if you sense this power isn't his,
He is remiss,
And what you like in him are stolen goods,
Do what you should.

Ask that it all be sent to hell.
Don't fear to tell,
And connected to the wise one by whom it was made.
End the charade.

If all of us would give up what isn't ours,
We'd reach the stars.
And quit pretending we are more than we are,
We would go far.

The real us could then begin to grow.
(Deep down we know).
And our lives could reflect the reason we were born,
No longer torn,

Between wanting to be great and to impress,
(More is less),
And being true to the spirit assigned to us at birth.
We'd find our worth.