The Scruple Poem by Ridwan Olamide

In a world that knows no order,
and all we fear is hunger,
we survive even at the cost of murder,
we set our ideals so little do we bother.

We care not about ties of kinship,
as we seek a path free of hardship,
we live by no principles,
the end justifies the means, or does it not?

Nay! it thwarts us,
the light of our hearts,
imprisoned by our own conscience,
we refrain and wallow in adversity.

We hate to be what we already are,
white garments tainted by black ink,
or perhaps black garments with white patches,
no saint nor demon.

It's the reason good breathes,
albeit, a faint breath,
though the good men are long gone,
even a few bad men do good deeds.

A heart that beats is never doomed,
nor is it assumed saved,
until the moment comes that it thumps no more,
then we know its final abode,

I hear why they say so...destiny perhaps.