The Trouble with Compassion
The trouble with Compassion is
she steals from Anger,
who arrives with guns blazing
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.