Dear Conscience

You love the pain, you prick yourself,
Enamored, you're alive.
Efficient torture practiced soothes
The buzz inside your hive.

The lawn lies bare except for there
A ruddy iron rake.
You cast your seed upon its tines,
And garden in your ache.

Now curse these blessings that would speak
To give away your ruse.
Both God in here and mother dear:
You have so much to lose.
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