Conscience

Ego stirred, rising with hunger for conflict. 

Blame scattered outward like sparks seeking dry wood.

Words became sharpened swords, flung to the wounds. 

A finger stretched outward, yet shadows curled inward.  

The wound it carved in others bled back into itself. 

Fault lingered like smoke it could not escape. 

Each word was not a weapon but a cry disguised. 

And in the silence, three unseen fingers bent towards itself. 

What it sought to destroy was only itself, 

and what it longed for all along was love.