No Burning Bush

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There ain’t no burning bush,
no beckoning pillar of fire,
There ain’t no mighty hand,
to save us from our own mire.
No voice comes out of the rocks,
to tell us what to do.
The choice is always our own.
We make our doom, we make our ruin.

This is the first time in months I’ve been able to get in.

I like to believe that,
[all beings are born with a moral compass]
But then I encounter beings
Of mesmeratic power
And lost in the vast lands of their dreams
I become deaf to background screams
And the clamour from those pounding on my windows
And I look away.
And when i seek to resume.
The pointer in my compass spins round and round.