On being kind

Kindness, akin to love,
we adore it, yet we gossip:

he bathes in the swamp
of cynicism, eager to follow
the stream of somber euphemism.
He’d scorn, ranting in return,

but inside him is a wounded rabbit
limping across the pasture,
searching for love, would walk on
a gossamer to get an assurance
that he’ll shine. While we
would help a lost child,

strangers in need, and so forth
we tend to look away from the
emotionally missing souls,
hoping they’ll wake up,
embrace gentle flow.

© Byung A. Fallgren

 

I used to do

When thoughts are
dried river,
emotion,
budding thorn,

fall back and soak
the tired wings
in the cool lake,

peep the world through
the latticework
of sanity, and
even the irritating
sarcasm’s
laughable,

find a quality
even in  the gnarled
deadwood.
Still I try.

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© Byung A. Fallgren