Bastardized, commodified, cheapened, blunted, coined.
Weave a web and monetize, plastic and love conjoined.
\"I\'m totally a cancer dude, the universe, it speaks.\"
Yoga mats and magic stones - your piety is weak.
You put every piece in place then marvel at the whole.
So blind to self that you can\'t see you\'re own hand in the soul.
What exists of it anyway, your flame rarely burns bright.
You really lack imagination, blinded by the light.
Ate some acid once or twice and missed your self made point.
Idolatry an irony you just love to anoint.
\"Intention,\" \"synchronicity,\" bullshit buzzwords ablaze.
You never make it practical, lost inside your haze.
Revelation, enlightenment and healing live in flame.
The tower closer than the sun, not just in petty name.
There is a fabric you can touch, as long as you fucking weave.
A journey wholly personal, a light you can achieve.
Reach up to every golden light and bind it to your eyes.
Brand your mantra on your forehead, speak not empty lies.
If you can put it into words, you are already lost.
You have to make meaning yourself, and yes it has a cost.
What is magic is not external, what is holy burns to touch.
Suffering a wayward stone that points to oh so much.
I have seen the patterns too, my head soars in the clouds.
It\'s only beautiful profundity with feet flat on the ground.