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Selective Empathy

  A selective empathetic is a more sinister evil than the outright unempathetic. The unempathetic is quite small in numbers, and are under more scrutiny. The selective empathetic is one of reflective desire, picking and choosing those to be glad for and wishing to prosper based off of desired personal gain, gain that involves putting others down in the process. This level of empathy is pure submission to outside preachers, outside systems, media, literature, art, and economics, and represents a dark and fallible inner sense. Letting things simply happen, apathetic to their greater truth, nihilistic in meaning, and a walking product of guiding forces around them. A pure empathetic is empathetic to all in all situations, noticing the humanity in all. It is sad to notice the selective empathetic being a prevalent and lauded endeavor, when the qualities of such selective empathetic are thought of also as manipulation. A great contradiction in social morality and personal character judgeme

The Changed Confederate.

He trudged through the dancing thicket

His mind was on a tasteful brew

In the distance was a singing cricket

On his arms blood drew

Boastful was the night

His eyes were blinded

A roaring fire in sight

His legs were binded

Approaching cabin fever,

The residents saw the man.

He signaled to the weaver,

A white flag in his hand.

The man came closer,

His weakness tied his chest.

Fear was the composer,

The man fell to rest.

Inside the residents were in dismay.

A wife turned to her spouse.

Night soon turned to day.

No one left the house.

There were three young men in blue.

Of them, Jay was the only adult.

Younger than twenty were the other two,

They looked at Jay to exalt.

The house belonged to a couple

Kids' toys were on the floor

The winter made hours supple

Jay and the two looked at the door

The man outside lay face-down

He appeared sickly

The cabin was far from town

He needed help quickly.

Finally, Jay left to get him

A violent snowstorm blurred his vision.

But the man was in gray trim,

Jay had to make a decision.

His gut told him to help

His mind told him to leave

Tears in his eyes yelp

He wiped them on his sleeve.

The man was hurt

And Jay could save him

With the devil he flirt

The light stay dim

Time was running out

Jay grabbed the man's arm

His ears popped doubt

And his nose breathed alarm

He rushed in and brought him to the couch

The man so hurt he couldn't move

He moved his arm and yelled "OUCH!"

The rest of the group didn't approve.

~ ~ ~

The man lay healing until finally awake

The others watched him with caution

One wrong move would be a huge mistake

The man noticed he wasn't in a coffin

As the man woke he looked at Jay

Jay's face was dark, clear and broad

The man sat without a thing to say

His confusion in a wad

Later that night they ate dinner together.

The room was silent

Hell transmuted the weather

The last desire was violent

Finally, Jay spoke up

"Are you okay?"

The man retorted, "yup,"

His face made of clay.

Jay gave the man his meal.

The man thanked him kindly.

Vicarious emotions they feel

Their trust developed blindly.

But Jay invited him to the table

For there was a feast of life

The man found he was able

And left behind his strife

They joyed together as a family should

And the rough situation turned gleaming.

They learned of the man's good

His nicety was redeeming

~ ~ ~

The morning approached

Hope sprang in the air

Jay held the confederate coach

Far away was a drummer's snare

The young troopers ventured forth

On their radar, Bull Run.

From South Carolina, it was North

The man's life had begun

He said he'd rethought the reason he went

The young troopers did too.

Jay was black and had a southern accent,

His uniform was fully blue.

The man's name was Bill,

And he was in desperate need.

Jay had every reason to kill,

But his heart was the one to lead.

There was hugging and crying,

and the young troops said goodbye.

Bill wiped his eyes sighing,

and left for home to make apple pie.

~ ~ ~

An owl howled midnight

There was a foul stench

The mind of mystery men less bright

Tired and rotting in a trench.

Bill trudged forth with a high fever

His last thoughts floated away

A fearful man pulled the leaver,

For good now, Bill lay.