Skip to main content

Empathy's Demise


It's quite wonderous really,

How clocks around the world are ticking right now in perfect synchrony.

Wonderous how even in such a large world, 

We are all nakedly defined by a common present. 

A common, now.

Wonderous how the sun is setting right this moment,

In one corner of the world.

While it rises in another, all at the same time.

.

Perhaps it is all that's left that unites us through the present.

Only the sun bears witness to the capering of man, 

For the world is simply too large for us.

Large enough to let a man in Paris grab an afternoon Latté, 

While a woman in Casablanca runs to the sweet embrace of her lover.

.

Large enough that the loudest sound you hear is this poem, and my voice,

Sheltered from the shelling beyond the seven seas.

Large enough that at this very second,

There's a little girl with ringing ears,

Looking through the rubble,

For her dead mother.

.

Now, when my voice too goes quiet. 

I implore you, tell me what is louder.

Is it the luxury of silence?

Or the weight of your shattered conscience.

.

.

- P.S

Cover Image credits: Ephraim Rubenstein

Comments

  1. love how you draw. parallels from the variety of lifestyles across the globe and classes to show ignorance and apathy

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

Popular Posts

An Ode to Rain

  An Ode to Rain “So what’s your favourite time of the year?” she asked, swinging a crossed foot lazily in the air, as she swirled a stirrer in a tiny cup of hot chocolate. Perhaps the time when I used to lick melted drops of vanilla from the back of my hand? blind to the fact that I was painting a modern art piece on the pavement with ice cream. What a charming memory.  Summer, I should say.  What about the little shivers my feet do, tucked away in the layers of heavy blankets, while my nose and ears complain of the biting cold to my toes.   Hot soups, lazy mornings, clouds from the mouth when I speak and hoodies with cosy pockets to slide my hands into.  Winter beats summer, surely.  To be fair, I was born in spring, the perfect gradient from the cold seasons to hot summers. Just the right temperature, reasonably humid with a drizzle of rain here and there. It had never been dramatic enough to create a lasting memory of itself though. Glancing out the cafe’s window to an overcast sky

Mayfly Philosophy

One humid night outside my front door, I was sitting in boredom waiting for the sun to go down so I could maybe catch the twilight dusk. The sky turned dark pretty fast that day and it wasn't nearly as impressive as the day before. Flies started buzzing all around and to my surprise, were suddenly gone. In intrigue, I looked up. Turned out, the light above the door frame had been turned on. Like a pilgrimage, little bugs from all around flew right up to it and made tapping sounds at the glass casing. At first I felt pitiful. For these tiny beings could only have so much energy and were wasting it for no reason. Almost like they wanted to break into the bulb and touch the filament, they battered their heads on the glass repeatedly. Fluttering their little wings with all their might. It was indeed pitiful to watch. Still is, whenever I see them. Near bulbs, tube lights, signboards or open fires. “How could one of nature’s creations be so flawed?” I thought. Moreover, it wasn’t like m

My Notes-app Up For Auction

It’s a late night with Alex Turner on full blast in my ears, never on the speakers though.  To make others around feel the full weight of unsolicited emotion of music, feels wrong. Who am I kidding, perhaps they don’t feel a thing. How rude. The flair of words seems to have abandoned me today so it’ll be bare bones. I find myself constantly backspacing the words I type with a vigour. A quickly written sentence followed by a slight pause full of fear, before my finger reaches out to the delete button on the far right. Desperately trying to put the tarp back on naked emotions uncovered bare. No more backspacing though. I’ve even gotten rid of the Grammarly extension. It shows me how a sentence rephrased, sounds more assertive but I digress. Enough fine tuning. Times like these I wish I had a typewriter. Imagine a canvas pedestal with hands, pointing to the parts where the acrylic paints fail to smudge. No one would ever pick up a paintbrush. Okay, enough rambling. This would have been be