Flood of Compassion

We dance on a thin crust
Suspended over a
Spinning, liquid core.

We live in a fragile,
Scaffolded sack
Of tenous,
Slow-flowing
Rivers,

Whose
Fragile source
And ceaseless pump
Feed the
Ravenous,
Insomniac molecules
Which together
Constitute
What we each call
"Me."

We ride
In hurtling
Cages of metal,
In whose midst
We also walk.

We fly in
Combustible canisters,
Roaring silently
Over the gridded terrain,
Napping as we go.

But with our hearts and minds,
We make universes:
We stand
On a stepstool
In God's own shadow,

Waving our whittled wands,
Turning
Wealth to waste
And back again.

Now -- as always --
With prayer,
And other forms
Of hard work,
We must remake
The shattered,
Lift up the fallen,

And lure away
Our own lower natures
From the opportunity
That has howled into their midst.

Water, like our natures,
Will rise and fall.
What remains
After the flood
Will be the
Starkest reflection
Of our resolve,

The clearest
Call
To our weakened wills.

Let us stand forth.

--Mr. Gobley