Below follicle forest,
beyond skull’s hard dome,
the weight of the psyche
creaks on pendulum
of cabled nerve endings.
It swings to and fro.
Moves from shadow of doubt
into light of reason.
Suspends each intricate thought
that waits to freefall,
quietly pulled toward significance,
like Newtonian apples.
Fingers massage temples
when dumbstruck for an answer.
Whorls polish invisible fruit.
The creaking of the conscience
is voice of sanity.
One must strain to hear the call,
to recognize the stress
that place one's nerves on edge.
Orchestrated decisions,
snap and otherwise
require skilled conductor.
Baton swings to and fro
with pendulum,
certain that the tempo
contains everything intended.
The creaking of the conscience,
loudest when sleep is elusive.
Squeaks like dry floorboards
beneath pacing man.
A pendulum within a pendulum,
yearning for a silence that cannot exist.
c) C. Butler 1998
