My conscience is a needle’s point
that is thread through the days behind;
a compass am I to life’s magnet,
and I will be alright if lost
as long as I don’t go too far
up north and find myself frostbit
by the fury of winter snow.
The poles are no place for morals
or scruples when needing mere warmth.
© J.P.V.
The Poetry Of J.P. 
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