Conscience
It feels like a baseball to the face
Or like alcohol on a bad scrape
Shocking and completely out of place
Making way for a hurried escape
Death does not whisper or whine with pain
It clings to the heart with sufferings
Like a mixture of pelting gray rain
Melting away all fortunate things
It feels like a glimpse of rotting flesh
Or like icicles along bare skin
Dreadful beyond what might opt to thresh
Creating fright about to begin
Death doesn't try to reserve time
It simply reaches out, latches on
Like it has offers in the meantime
For special moments that will not con
It feels like a sickening rupture
Or like tomorrow from tonight’s song
Nasty and similar to anger
Preparing feelings that are all wrong
Death is a humbling experience
It makes you fathom you're powerless
To change the mortality’s grievance
Leaving you alone with your conscious
It is sinister and alarming
Like a cold hand touching your own hand
It clenches like it’s out for blaming
The fond feelings on the reprimand
Death is a lonely and limp dwelling
It makes you see your incompetence
Pulls on tenderness of your heartstring
Will death still discourage your conscience?
August 9th, 2014
©2014
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