This gust of wind all too familiar.
A derisive cold brush
Sieved through open fingers,
With the outstretched arm
Almost wavering
In its resolute endeavour.
Need there be a reason
For self-endorsed altruism
Or the crippling guilt entrenched
In every concern extended.
To be helpless or helpless
In the delivery of assistance,
Which sports greater irony,
Which sports greater agony.
Perhaps it is the inflation of which
What more good we may accomplish
If we'd find some, more, and even all
Luck and cooperation...
Thereby making sense of this shortfall.
But with this, logic too, will crumble;
Just as the hand retreats and nestles
Back in snug jacket pockets,
Silently beating at one's incompetence.
Then extension, intension, intention --
Could possibly matter
no
more.
Turning away, embrace
The more that is out there;
Gently file away,
All reproach and despair.
For somewhere else,
A firm grasp will seek
That extended hand.
Of mutual aid and reliance
This bond shall stand --
Silently making amends.
