by Sharon Chism
For every star left dim
a universe of courage has been lit.
For every knowing glance that’s missed,
a heart of insight enjoyed.
Each temptation of independence thwarted
a freedom given, uncorrupted.
And for every tear that’s shed,
a well of compassion filled.
The isolation of faceless crowds
calls the deep ache of unseen smiles.
Yet the outreached hand of kindness
breaks the silence with laughter’s grin.
A thorn, to some it’s called,
a true and worthy title.
But those who overcome the wound
marvel in the flower’s glory.
Is the trade an even swap?
Could I know surrender’s power without?
Acceptance, not the loser’s consolation,
but the faithful crown of victory!