The Divide

We of a comfort-cushioned world
what do we know
of suffering?
Sailing through this world
with puffed-up winds
at our backs.
Stopping often along the way
in senseless futile
dithering
In want, though we have
so much the world
around us lacks.
How much importance in our minds
our little worries
of day to day
And even hints of discomfort
squeeze out roars
and tears
But opening those closeted eyes we'll see
a world brimming
with dismay
Ever newer twists of the rack
awaiting those
whose fears
are not quite as muffled as ours
not quite as
out of sight
Real, as real as any plaything we may
be amused by for
a passing thought
Real as the garden that is our existence
and not far way
hidden from light
Not worthy, it seems, of a single glance
though in our face
we heed it not
Barely visible, not in the brilliance
of life that blinds
us to all
that is not shared skin to skin
with us by those
smothering
in the smog of our comforts and greed,
choking breaths,
soon will fall.
Ignore if we must, but think twice
before lamenting
our "suffering"