The Dancing Conscience

Press your face against the glass.
Let me gaze in at what wonders you could've had.
For your punctured paper conscience
is folded like a secret.
It's strung upon a spinning thread in the center of your chest.
When the tempting winds stir, it pirouettes yet never falls.
And when the frosty fires fold its twisted edges,
stronger it blooms, like a flower in spring.
When the waves of discomfort skim its fragile toes

It makes way... So it can dance.