The Little Voice

a poem about the inevitability of man's weakness and how we always submit to true desire

I never saw his face quite clear; in truth, never met him anywhere.
Through life I felt him none the less, behind designs of all my stress.

No matter when or where I prayed, he followed there; sat and smiled.
Despite the games that others played, it was he who was most beguiled.

Some days he growls, sometimes he chides; he knows I hear and so abides-
my daily, weekly, yearly stalling cannot impede persistent calling.

On mornings when the sun is hot, on evenings that are cool and crisp-
he often furthers deadly plots with whispers via willful lisp.

Every web that I spun, every attempt to deceive someone;
all the mates that I have wronged were propagating through his song.

My first true love, my second and third; once were duped by his word
and though wealth remains of no concern, there are riches for which I still yearn.

From youth to man and I suspect till death, the beast will bathe in every breath.
It swirls and wafts about his brow and when I comply he takes a bow.