Light is dying, my spark squashed, gasping for one last crackle
Made into an effigy of a loser by harsh hands, adorned with knives
That slap me in to submission
And cut off all the residual fat of my compassion
Till what is left of me is not nature
But a bundle of gray neuroses
And an acidic bitterness that dissolves joy
Words are my sanctuary
Words that convey affection
That, like magic, move in my ears and brain
It’s a game of roulette if electricity’s commute through the body is cruel or kind
I am constantly looking for another heart to mimic the light of my own, divine echolocation
I like compassion that isn’t thoughtlessly advertised
Compassion that isn’t just a slogan to afford faceless corporate monoliths an air of humanity, who all year, all around the world, wage war on human brotherhood and love
True compassionate acts are currency of a gift economy which creates a multiplier effect for optimal outcomes
The fine tuned science of solidarity
One day I will talk of depression in the past tense
And be an ocean of strength and prominent in the universe