Iím alone, but am I really alone?
Who is this voice that speaks to me?
From where comes this voice
that questions my every move?
Who is it that wants justification for
all I say and do? The voice speaks
to me like it knows me, in a language
that is familiar. It seems to know
what Iím thinking before I think it.
I demand to know but only silence.
When pressed, the voice hides.
But then, a faint whisper, like a
train in the distance, coming toward
you, getting louder, ď you canít hide
Then comes the muse flash.
The great debate between your
actions and your conscience.
The arbiter between what you want and
what you do, between who you love
and who you hate. The silent controller
of you and your life. The muse that
compares what we want in reality
with whatís right in spirit.
Is this inspiration or trepidation?
The court of your conscience issues
both opinions and judgements, opinions
after the fact and judgements on
issues pending. Do those those
opinions and judgements
become words on the page?
Does my pen dare to reflect
who I really am?