The countryside is filled with a faint spiritual glow
Emanating from the great oddsmaker in the sky.
The thrill of disaster captures the attention of the masses
And we are able to glimpse the rapid defenestration of morals
That accompanies resistance to those most popular of delusions.
How rare a memory is peace,
But we were lambs once, and happy.
We must harvest the wind and sun
As neurons slowly heal and scars slowly fade,
So that when our names echo out from the speakers above
We may defy Pavlov and run free through the streets.
Worshipping symbols and so manipulating orthography
To meet the ritual of expression,
The mantra remains true:
Language is ego, and ego is language, one and the same.
The puzzle of consciousness rests upon this tenet.
Spirituality might benefit from such a revelation.