Compassion …

A Poem

She whispers while others shout gentling touching a soul, healing a broken heart, she is wind and light where there is darkness and still waters. Covering her eyes she weeps for the wandering lost

for the empty hearts and careless minds that fear all too much.

She remains when others have left, selfless when others hoard, fearing too that they will be left behind. But she is lonely and not immune. She is comfort for others and awkward in her own world, what does she learn?

Life passing her by, loveless she waits for a sign; an endless train of thought, a sprinkling of love, a moment of reflection that only someone else will see — she is patient and all is not lost, but time is pressing. Time is wayward and spiteful and remindful of what has never been — she waivers, yet no one sees.

Taken for granted, taken for a fool at times she lays homeless in a sea of beds, in a world filled with marble and lace, she is naked and cold but for a thin veil of hope that she clings to.

That we tug at, and try to rip away. Soft flesh lies beneath, supple, smooth and easy to the touch she is willing but seldom finds an easy hand; often left crying on a stranger’s bed, thighs bloody, hopes tattered but still intact.

She rises when others would remain empty, she is loyal and yet we don’t see it, we’re blind to her beauty, to her gentle ways, her soft and loving embrace. There is love for the taking but it’s larceny that drives our heart, the stealing of what is freely offered.

Tired she crawls into the shadows into the dark that hides her, comforts her when no one else will. She sleeps thus, when her need is greatest, when her absence is horror, and others question why. She is tempted now to surrender, to walk away and heal her own wounds. Would we miss her? Would we notice?

It is terror that stalks, not without, but within if she goes missing. If her presence fades and only her memory lingers. Who would raise our arms to hold others, our lips to whisper words of love, our hearts to beat gently for another, if she is lost?

Is it not our turn to draw her out, to reassure, and show her what she has shown us without return? It is.