Conscience

Standard

Deep in the dark
of the wind-thrashed tree
a rasping voice calls to me,
demanding I see
what I cannot see.

The tree’s dark core
deep shade obscures,
and try as I might,
I’m blinded by night
descending.

Yet still it calls, insistent and
shrill, when sudden silence
my aching heart fills
with cold
apprehension.

Oh Lord, whom have I
offended?

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