Conscience
Ashamed, the conscience is shy
in a heart, a summer sky,
echo from a soul in pain
when an act, a sudden stain.
The face, a sullen look wears,
eyes battling creeping tears;
round balls drop and wet the dress,
stir the soul to clean the mess.
Seared's a conscience without shame,
bullying the way to fame.
© 2014
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