Always within you,
is watching you.
That is the God in you—
the gaze you cannot escape,
the still witness
of how you dodge His light,
how craftily
you lie to yourself—
seeking shelter in belief,
as though belief
could pardon betrayal.
You cry,
I’m in the doghouse,
play the victim
while playing Him—
forgetting:
He is nowhere
but within.
You persuade yourself
against the obvious,
tighten your blindfold
with trembling hands,
and leap—
not into faith,
but the abyss
of convenience.
You lay lies
like quilts on your conscience,
plug your ears
and call your silence
safety.
You name cowardice: courage,
call genocide: defense,
brand injustice: fair,
rename evil: saint—
to linger longer
in a world
built on the graves
of truth.
You grant yourself credit
by burying your soul
six feet under—
pulling your turtleneck
over your head,
your sword
back into its sheath.
Because you still want to eat.
Still want to sleep.
Still want
comfort.
Even if it means
protecting the hand
that strikes the innocent.
You fear the obvious—
for it points to you.
You hush your heart,
bow to the herd,
and call the black sheep
mad.
You blur your good
to blend with evil,
dim your light
to dodge suspicion—
but in the crystal of the moon,
in the mirror’s pure glass,
there is no veil.
There,
you are seen—
as you are.
There is no hiding
in clarity.
Good and evil
both behold you.
And we—
we tilt the scale
with every breath,
with every act.
