Conscience

the walking sea rushes through every opening

with threats of being open and deep

damn sure and steep, all you can do is give way

denying pangs to want, pangs to keep
entwined like thistles on poor flower, folly
peripetia and the unflinching thoughts of 

dead men as tradition - bloats the vermin, kill the weak, 

tickle me fancy, social construct, folly.

exchanging the dogma of the suicidal loudmouth

to the simple eastern philosophies of quiet mindfulness

against bonobos confused, plan a conspiracy spanning years
so at the liquid mirror i am besides myself

as they commit these crimes that have no names

this disgusting folly not yet written on a stone

how can another spur thoughts of deaths 
these crimes should go unpunished, i guess,

"We are just girls, that’s how we behave!"

this burning ash, men want to soothe

by pouring them on his chest, looking for conscience

in a drivel about loneliness, ribs, bones of my doom

tell him, you can’t miss what you have never had

so it is a lie, to say Adam ever felt lonesome

any explanation is folly for those with a feel for it

another's decaying flesh makes cannibals in search of blood

why won’t an open sore be the centre of attention

when i die, God dies, every social construct dies

put all these on imbeciles see if they care

why then should a grown man feel burdened

sad, unhappy, and trifled with by the stroke of anther’s pen

if it is in every child to belittle and bring to naught

adults, legends, gods and an end to mystique
in conscience search,one must grovel sparingly, if it is all there is

soot in the place that be, the sewer pipe; thumb and index

the night’s suicide postponed for now, tears seep back 
as swallowed barfs

bitter and repulsive adulthood; gall of disappointment 
on the body of the hugged like scales;lies and depravity
every peace of mind broken every trust discarded and

the worst is thought of ,

all the time the meager you make is threatened 
with aggressively sprouting hands, mangled, and out for revenge

you lost! tired and confused with idealistic lyrics playing in your head

surely there can be one like me

drained and planned for like a puppet, with no say whatsoever
from social construct to social construct hop to hop, like a kangaroo
no time to stop, think and check pouch.

Suddenly you are out in the world and believed to be in the know

holding birds and stroking permanently with fibromyaglic hands

smiling and hoping someone gives a damn, hoping someone rescues you
but it is a festival,

you are either the log or the stoker, it all songs and dance

just besides you, and you will never feel it or find conscience

until you are the log and another the stoker.

by
Victor Samuel