"Service to Others," the Ego insists,
For its next impossible trick,
But you follow neither rabbitry nor hattery,
You only know, when high enough to see,
How everyone must be:
Needing, needy.
You can dive into the healing waters
Of your own slavery,
Or, better yet,
Kill them with a thousand
Cuts of cruel
To be kindly ...
They will always stare back
Unawares
Of any strategy or help
Beyond the whispered "Thanks"
For forgiving momentarily
They're unworthy.
There's no harmony
When it's every sentient being for itself.
Oh, but balance is the only way
We can conceive of it,
Some consequence contraption
Always vaporous in space
To explain the wait
Between the lightning and the sound.
What if it's just yourself?
There's no Bible for your eye?
Would the needs of Others
Be anything more than the hum of flies?
The boysenberry reaches,
Seemingly oblivious
To all but the call
Of the sun.
We are far away from that,
What is everyone.
