The chaos of the world,

Its random and isolating indifference,

Seems to leave her with the comfort of her own,

Herself to rely, herself to console.

She hears of the revolutions,

The plague, the death, the inhumanity.

She walks along the streets, and feels the worry,

The quickness, the inevitability.

How isolating the world can be!

It takes as it gives, unequally and apathetically,

Leaving a soul to gather alone,

To find peace atop an indifferent stone.

So where does she go,

When the comfort of humanity loses its strength?

When compassion steps aside,

For tyranny and genocide.

To a bench beside the park,

Among the grass below the trees:

“In memory of a loving soul:

‘How lucky are we?

How damned we are.’”