Often he speaks to me. Guides and enlightens me.
I call him Conscious.
Conscious, the conscious.
He cam’st to me when I had lived twelve winters.
I remember. I remember often not. This I do.
He saith him to be my salvation.
He saith him to be my friend.
A shape he had not, never had.
Never made he an appearance before me.
Just a voice in the wind. My friend.
Voices plenty followed afterwards.
He hath warned me not to heed them.
Only he was worthy of trust. My friend.
Those not heeded now ‘come aggressive.
Fie! Silence the unheeded.
I do not hark to their whispers.
Only to my friend’s.
