Don’t we ever grow weary of this act,
This endless caring, this fragile art?
Caring how we feel, our hearts laid bare,
Caring how others feel, their burdens to share.
Yet seldom do we pause, seldom do we see,
That we don’t feel like them, nor they like we.

It seem loadsome and heavy this thing, to carry the we,
To make their troubles ours, their joy an act
Of mutual faith, though rarely do we see
An arm extended back, a mirrored art.
It tires the soul, this caring we share,
This weight we bear, our hearts threadbare.

why should we care anyways when hearts are bare and obsecured to be observed,
When the world is fractured more than the, not “we”?
Why should we extend when few choose to share,
When kindness is an act too rare to enact?
It seems a wiser step and much easier to master the art
Of apathy, to let the silence of care be as shadows gentle fall.

But this silence chills where warmth could be,
And empty hands find no measure in solace bare.
So we persist, weaving the frayed art,
Stitching the threads of "I" and "we."
Though tired, we play this timeless act,
For hope demands that we still share.

Yet hope alone cannot teach how to share,
Cannot fill the void where care should be.
Each gesture must be chosen, not just an act,
Each offering made from the soul laid bare.
Though broken, we rebuild the "we,"
A woven thread of hearts, our flawed art.

Perhaps it is this: the beauty of art,
The fragile beauty of daring to share,
That binds us, imperfectly, into a "we."
Though the effort aches, though joy may flee,
The soul is fuller when no heart is bare,
And life is richer when care is not an act.

So we care, not an act, but an art,
Barriers laid bare, and hearts we share.
Though tired, we be... we still choose to be "we."