Death calls out with her haunting mannerisms,
and I sway, like the pines creaking in the wind, not breaking.
I struggle to understand this world,
to see the lack of empathy that pervades conventional thought.
I search for compassion, for a trickle of warmth in the eyes of each stranger.
What is compassion,
if not twine tied around your finger and mine;
if not butterfly wings moving the breath of wind;
if not love bleeding out with every word said?
Where is the reason,
if this hand can’t grasp yours or theirs or theirs;
if people are dying and dying and dying, alone?
When will we heal our broken ears — mend these tattered hearts?
The cold wind is persistent, swaying the trees, limbs bending.
Maybe there’s a lesson here, confused by the rustling of leaves.
So It Goes 