I am a student. An avid reader of poetry. Passionate about writing poems
It is high time, my son That you ought to transform Your dearest conscience To a wilted conscience. Said an old man one day Witnessing me seethe Under a paroxysm of anger. The righteous fire simmers; Our heads high in defiance Swooning under the elixir Of conscientious righteousness Intoxicated by the ideal And this is no big deal. But remember my son, If you find thyself trapped Between the flooding emotions And the emotionless drought, I bet you would prefer the flood I propose, instead, that son, You please choose the drought Not because it ensures life - Both meet a certain death. But because emotions Not wisely vented out May pull you down Down to your grave But being emotionless Is relatively safe. If the choice, is between Crushing thy conscience, Or suppressing it, Choose the latter- It is wise to prefer A wilted conscience Conscience once crushed Makes a machine out of a man And a beast out of the machine But a wilted conscience Evades neatly this fate For a conscience wilted Doesn't make a man dead It only reiterates, that he Has miles to go before a sleep A lot to achieve, a lot to give. It recognises all aspirations, While waiting for a time opportune To nurse the drooping flower Thus ensuring earnestly That our dear conscience Lives to see the sunny day And radiates freshness Like a flower in full bloom. ©siddharth_khatri
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