Conscience

Copyright © 2009 Ernest Bloom (20090513).

I come and stand before the thermostat, taking stock of my conscience.
The law will be obeyed. But am I then some witless minion
of thermodynamics? Am I not a man with a soul, with a will?
My thumb 'gainst the wheel may well engage cogs that jog
more microscopical aggregates than mortal minds unriddle.
What shall guide me? The rule of law, or my conscience?

Conscience.

Conscience is the eye of the soul, an instrument
illuminating one's passage through the dark cells
and musty dungeon corridors called life. No
ministrant usher itself, conscience; no
epic facilitative companion; rather,
conscience is an aperture through which truths and falsehoods
stream in, and how closely we mark and adjust its sensitivity
delineates our moral character.

Shall we endeavor to give no offense? I think not. Offense
taken by pachydermal sensation-addicts to subtle human niceties
is a purgative, corrective sting to their mortal souls that may (we hope)
productively chasten. No, it is rather our own souls that we must
safeguard like a miser his treasure horde, keeping our ears open
for voices murmuring much softer than thunder, conveying
proverbial whispered messages that one day shall lead us
from out this dingy labyrinth again.