The calls come in voices of need
from those who stake a claim,
a queue breaking into a throng.
There is no ignoring them.
Who will answer but the one who hears?
Responsibility and compassion intertwine,
becoming a 'yes' because I can.
How many time will I split
so all get a piece?
Is there a retreat where blades cannot slice,
where shields are not rent,
and my heart is not cleaved?
Calling for reprieve in smaller voices,
receding to paradox,
less after each division,
there are dozens of weaker me's
roaming the empty halls of unity.
Before the man has left
or becomes too small to see,
ask the question,
what was there to divide,
infinite parts of nothing?
©Eusebeia Philos 2013
A poetical take on Zeno's paradox of infinite divisions as applied to human emotional strength and its eventual limits.