Conscience

He sits upon his rocky perch

Looking down upon us, a king of the sky.

Paying no heed to the rush hour that controls us.

An eternity endlessly elongated and he is free to rotate it,

And nothing holds him except brief moments of need.

So, he takes to the sky, casting shadows upon us,

But, does he really know?

The fangs of death stalk every minor movement,

Surveying the murky depths he has only ever known.

The stench of decay drips from his pointed tips.

Oozing globs of anticipation dissipate into the salt water, he cannot hold back.

He leaps into action, only knowing this very second.

There is no choice, no life for him, only instinctive survival.

Does he really know?

We sit, upon self-made, cushioned thrones detached from the wilderness from which our soul still craves.

Taking willingly, always wanting, caught up in frivolous fuelled greed, hoarders of perfect packets of misery.

Building walls of segregation around us, to keep out the beast.

And we watch the ensuing nightmares as if they are a performance for our own benefit.

Forgetting that it was only ever us that turned the world sour.

And the beast we try so dearly to avoid, are the eyes of our reflection.

Somewhere inside, I’m sure we know, we must know!