From somewhere deep in spirit to this place we come.
A magnificent replica of the real thing,
This earth plane does poor justice to living life there.
What’s reflected from spirit is beyond compare.
Yet, upon this dirt schoolhouse we solemnly cling
Until we are released back to where we came from.
There’s no cleaning in spirit… not rubbish to tend.
No dust ever collects because none can exist
In its corners. No mourners do cry do to that.
One can eat like a pig and will never get fat.
All the heartache that goes on here will not be missed.
Everyone we encounter will be our best friend.
This is not just a fluke, here – this flesh and bone stuff.
It exists in ideal form that cannot be form
In the ways we perceive the projection it makes
Upon our feeble senses. But make no mistakes,
What we gain from our time romancing the dust storm
Is a spirit well-seasoned who has had enough.