The Trouble With Compassion

The Trouble with Compassion

The trouble with Compassion is

she steals from Anger,

who arrives with guns blazing

heart raging,

searching for a place to aim,

someone to point the blame on.

Compassion robs it of its target,

sets it in slow orbit

to face off each opponent.

The trouble with Compassion

is the way she filters light,

reflects each being back to Anger

in such a way as if to say,

“This one is doing the best that he can.”

“This one, too, is doing the best that she can.”

“Just like you are doing the best that you can.”

Anger turns in measured circles searching

for a place to land,

lurching this way and that, grasping at

the frayed end of a rope, hoping

to find something to take hold of.

Until it the only foe left

is Compassion herself.

But the trouble with Compassion is

her softness is formidable,

her lilac scent medicinal

her truth too unequivocal,

and like a tender kiss

to a young child’s head,

she gently nudges Anger’s eyelids closed,

coaxing it into sweet repose

so it can settle down and drift

off to sleep.