Conscience, the derivitive, or the norm,
that crest of trouble, being now conform
and that self centered point of view, the scorn ~
I back up into waves of self reform!
And asking why, Oh God, why me, inform
the same conceptual era stays forlorn,
the right indignity, the wrongful, sworn!
What did it prove, my ego's bent and worn ~
What did it save, what majesty inform
as if the angels archway caustic wait ~
still sinful, man, still edging, still abate
as fate redundant, questioning seems late!
Not perfect, not resolving, only torn!
"To need Me" was an answer, I heard from
some vast deliverance, my mind could score,
"To trust me" it continued like a store!
"To love me" was a final act implore,
"To know me" ~ ah, the answers now kept form!
"To save you" was the last, thank God no more!
". . and others" Ah this timidness not horn!
Meant all the "others" knew that patienced norm,
and so I slept, the waves were now . . . felt warm!
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