Compassion

 Compassion is measured not in yards, nor is it weighed by the pound.

It can neither be bought or sold and only in a few places found.

For there are many who claim to stand tall from behind a bended knee.

They maintain they come forth in absolute assurance on faiths silent plea.

Yet they do not, and the feign compassion based not on what they gave

They invent compassion on how much of their bank accounts were spent on the attention they crave.

 So, how do you determine compassion?

 For it is neither measured or weighed, nor is it culled from the whispers of dark.

It is but found by the number of strangers fingerprints left on one’s weary heart.

So what do you say to a child in rage, or to a woman of a less desirous way?

How do you ease the fear which comes from abuse year after year?

And how about that of the young man of whom you can plainly see

Oh, that of the young man who for sake of guidance

 is destroying himself in a blinded effort to be free.

 So many are the causes, so many from both near and far.

So many in need of compassion to heal the soul scared.

Oh tell me, tell me today…

How many fingerprints are on your heart I pray?

J. Allen Wilson © Nine 2006