The Irish

Is your suffering worth any more?

Do you tie threads of gold,

To your heartache?

Should I pay for the right,

To hear your woe,

And nothing for others?

We are universal in our hurt,

Yet selfless handing it out,

Foisting it upon the trapped,

Insisting we are kind hosts,

Entertaining greedy guests.

How enamored are we,

By our senses,

That we are blind,

Deaf, numb, mute;

Unfeeling through calluses of malice?

We can allow for drunks,

For vomit, drugs, and glass,

For many more to line our streets,

But not the reminders of those,

Those that came for our help.

How selfish of them!

Can’t they see we are to be pitied,

For we can’t save ourselves.

Photo by Levi Meir Clancy on Unsplash

#HI