Beyond Compassion
You speak to me now of a tender word,
“Compassion,” you say, with a voice I once heard
Dismissing my struggles, ignoring my need,
While you planted your own, a self-serving seed.
You were a statue when storms were my teacher,
A blank, absent space, not a friend or a feature.
Your responsibility, left like a stone,
Was a weight I accepted, and carried alone.
I built with the rubble. I forged in the cold.
A story of triumph from a narrative you sold
For a pittance of silence. I learned to be hard,
To be my own shelter, to be my own guard.
And now that the sun warms my weathered-made skin,
You arrive with your basket, expecting to win
A portion of harvest, a place at my fire,
And cloak your old absence in new, soft attire.
Do not speak to me now of the blood that we share,
When you let it run cold, and you did not care.
Do not point to the bond that you willingly frayed,
And demand the kind grace that you never displayed.
For compassion is not a forgotten-born debt,
Nor a chain to be clasped by the conscienceless yet.
It is not a right for the reckless to claim,
To extinguish the embers of lingering shame.
It’s a sovereign decision, a peace made with pain,
A choice to let sunshine fall after the rain.
It is offered, not taken, from a heart that has mended,
A battle is over, a war has been ended.
So stand in the silence your choices designed,
And know that the grace you are hoping to find
Is a favor, not owed, from a strength you did not give
A choice to let go, so the spirit may live.
It resides…Beyond Compassion
©TheVillageBoy.
(𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒇𝒊𝒈𝒖𝒓𝒆 𝒎𝒂𝒏 𝒘𝒉𝒐 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒔 𝒂𝒍𝒑𝒉𝒂𝒃𝒆𝒕𝒔)
