ConscienceA Poem by CBlast this paper, this hellish inscription that I hold here
in my hand, T’has killed not just this god but down here many more
besides, I run, I hide, from those I have bereaved, Of their fathers, one and all, all in nought but one swift
strike, Of pen upon paper, pouring my mind upon the world. Blast these machinations, Blast the workings of my mind, For giving me this trouble, this deadly discontent. No sooner than I’d killed this god, With my workings, with my sums, Than high above, caught wind and sent its armies after me. For now you see without their god these men are only vile, They carry now no cross upon their coats, they march no good
crusade, For whom shall they kill and for whom shall they plunder, If I have killed their god? Alas, ‘tis not for them I stay my hand, I have my reasons for staying my tongue, Beyond the bangings on my door, beyond the knives scraping at
my throat. For you see these workings, These damning little sums, Have the power to topple giants, And see them bleeding gold. But with that strike I will also cut, The threads that keep the sheep Of the lord I slew upon the earth. That golden blood upon the ground Would be no recompense, For the weight of a thousand souls. And so it must be, That the fruits of my mind, Being as bitter as sweet, Must go with god. So, as the weight of the greedy leans upon my doors, With a heavy heart and a light conscience, I set ablaze the fruits, And the tree runs into the night. © 2020 CReviews
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