Synergy Blues
By Harry Sinclair
The world weeps
in collective suffering of conscious life.
The world weeps
in love-lost moments.
The child weeps,
in the confusion
of what’s around them,
of what’s in them,
and in what's not —
in the confusion
of it all.
And the boy weeps,
after his father has gone away,
not to return.
And the girl weeps,
for the beauty
she cannot see
in the mirror on the door.
And the mother weeps,
(in silence with a smile)
watching what she knew
become unknown.
And the father weeps,
holding pain he doesn’t understand
and doesn’t recognise
in his own two fists.
And the office worker weeps,
knowing he has
lost sight of the dream
he once saw clear.
And the refugee weeps,
for the life she once had
and the person she once was
and the person she must be
now.
And the street sleeper weeps,
for the home — and the mother —
that once held him
so warm.
And the till operator weeps,
for the numbers punched in
and time went.
And the drunkard weeps,
alcoholic tears falling down a lonely face
sat in a chair waiting to live.
And the soldier weeps,
mixed with sweat and blood;
his and others in another’s name.
And the old woman weeps,
in words held back
and ideas kept quiet,
saving room for less deserving.
And the old man weeps,
as the pain held in no longer holds
in the thin, frail skin of his old body.
The world weeps,
in different ways
but from the same places.
The world weeps.
© H. R. Sinclair 2025
Suffering seems hereditary. It’s an innate feature of living. When I studied philosophy, I used to hate hearing that. Yet, it seems a part of life — immeasurable, incomparable, and highly personal.
We all know suffering, one way or another, and we all show or hide it, consciously or unconsciously. While it may be globally shared, we feel it so individually and privately.
All we can do is lead with empathy and love. I wish you as little suffering as possible.
Love to you all,
H. R. Sinclair
*Originally published in Black Coffee Poetry on Medium