Compassion's Confinement

Compassion sings in velvet vibrato violin strokes, thrumming upon an ivory frame suffused in dulcimer tones of need. Half deaf we echo broken words, sharp jagged phrases, defining the borders of empathy, binding the reach of the heart. Compassion lays bittersweet trails on the tongue, late fall berries, bursting in a celebration of triumph and sorrow. Half starved, we feast on spoils, too drunk on victory to discern the salt-sweet retch of blood from the bitter poison of lies. Compassion streams in surreal ashen hues - the rose tainted glow of golden wildfire skies. A sanctity of devastation. Half blind we stumble backward, peering through filtered lenses at remnants of truth, polarized illusions of light and shadow. Compassion has a feel to it. Silken swirls, brushing coarse burlap weave, abraded, fraying strands writhing and twisting to knots. Yearning for touch, we seethe. Flames of passion spent in bursts, numbing balms of hatred, clutches of greed, belie the cold of our isolation. Compassion carries a scent. Ancient and innate, its musk permeates with an overwhelming fear for the suffering of another. Senses blurred, anointed, incensed, we shed our stigmata of tenderness, cowering in the purloined stench of our pernicious sanctimony. Compassion has a secret seed, bound to the strivings of our soul, nurtured in endless streams of hope, rooted in the sustenance of courage. Correlations confound conclusions. Half deaf and blind we crawl, fragile unadorned. Braving thorns, we guard compassion’s trembling stalk. ©Ilona Rapp 2017 All Rights Reserved