A buffalo in chains

He pulls the cart with his mate, strenuous pull,
Yet the driver beats him, he is in the right,
Fate, he consoles himself. 
Life is the hoover to suck the evil.

The buffalo too has three pound grey stuff
His skull treasures it.  Keeps his ego safe.

Acts, activates, imagines, calculates, invents,
His ego cannot perish and his past life too!
Begone life relives, enlightens, and says:
"Oh buffalo, you were a poet in your past life!"

Soul merges into a larger soul.  I was told:
"Pythagoras was Aethalides in his past life."
He had a past life  memory.  His brain was not faulty.

Let me grow from the roots, fast, skyward,
Great power I imbibe yet I suffer my sins,

I have sixth sense of nightmares,
I am a buffalo you know. My cartman thrashes
To make a blood mark on my back.

Unreasonably punished.  Fate lurks
Eyes glitter, emit fire.  Horrible.
I looked at the clock and stopped it.
A telekinetic feat.  Yet I am naked.

How can I cover my procreative system?
A buffalo cannot wear clothes.  Hapless I am!
Please untie me, cart-driver, please.
I passed three stages, the theology, the metaphysics,
I crossed experimental science.  I have sixth sense!

A buffalo with extra-sensory perception.
I predict to make people love and hate.
But a buffalo has no soul, and no rebirth, they say.
I search for an indefinable soul that is mine!
But the cart-driver holds my neck tight
To prevent the avalanche of thoughts in me.

Will he lead me to thebutcher?