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