A fight against conscience

Our hope of course
lies
in getting more of the same:
the hit, no surprise
to our eyes gone lame
from a dark dopamise;

forty minutes go by
and lie bind gagged,
my hostage and I
a terrorist flagged
by lights in the sky.

Hide, hide, secure the sin,
waste the hours and cure the din
of conch resounding loud within
til dry acidic eyes sink thin.

Red are the nights
ere the dawn flees east,
blue frightful lights
and I the least
to set my hand right.

For ash crumbling tween
our white errant fingers
falls, clumps of the scene;
a mocker’s lap lingers
for all to be screened.

Hide, hide, secure the sin,
waste the hours and cure the din
of conch resounding loud within
til dry acidic eyes sink thin.