I can almost always be
dangerously carefree,
oblivious to the mess
of human debris
that floats like flotsam
around me,
till I hear them scream
as they start drowning.

Then I sense
their scarlet secrets,
linked letters
that write themselves.

I can feel the weight
that presses on their chests,
as they struggle for
a restorative breath.

Their skin bleeds raw
ravaged by savage
brushstrokes,
ancient furies channeled
as my fellow humans scramble,
yet still fail to survive.

The feeling passes
almost as fast as
I can type it.
My humanity collapses,
as pain is exchanged for less
and more pleasurable pursuits,
and the anguish fades
retreating in my own
distracting ways.

My empathy shrivels up
as I go on enjoying all my stuff.