Equilibrium passes us by again as
We preach the blindly weighted scale.
Light and an abscess to fight was
An eternal human hold, the line, pale,
Drawn in the impenetrable plaster mold
Seen beyond the watery tears of mourning,
Lives a feeling meant to balance.
Yet how much must one feel and how much must
One not, to reach the eternal human heart
On its high-balanced shelf?
Mirrored first among a familiar,
Those cared for never enough,
A pillar of a rigid life in human harmony.
But to recall its blood distinction, A justice without much,
There knows that not all are deserving, of this true care such
To claim the universal right
An infinitely, divinely human fight
Though who alone is this fight fought
But by those agents of nonsense thought:
The oppressor feels no compassion and yet the rebel far too much
To hear the news, be deep in trance,
All things understood greatly
International pains of true compassion
Have no use in the mind so stately
A love instead, is better left, in the personal wastes
I care too little or not enough,
How is it not clear?
It is not truly how much you feel.
It is not truly for who you feel.
It is not truly wherefore you feel.
Equilibrium comes round at last
How is it not clear?
To find our fulcrum in compassion,
To feel just enough,
It is to make us feel better
In our hatred of ourselves.