POEM - Orphans of Virtue

They gather not in gilded halls where virtue preens and prates,

Nor where the polished marble floors reflect self-congratulating fates.

You find them in the margins thin, where shadow softly bleeds,

Where whispered prayers dissolve in rain, and silence plants its seeds:

The Orphans of Virtue. Left behind when principle took flight,

When courage folded velvet wings and vanished in the night.

I. The House of Echoes

Her virtue was a fortress strong, of duty, sharp and clean.

Each measured act, each word precise, a rigid, stoic scene.

But tenderness, that fragile bloom, found no soil in her stone.

Her child, a boy with eyes too deep, grew up, and up, alone.

He learned the rules, the perfect form, the catechism cold,

But warmth? A myth. A distant star, a story never told.

He sits now in her vacant house (she passed, serene and "right"),

Surrounded by her spotless things, bathed in electric light

Too harsh, too bright. He traces dust on frames of accolades,

Hears only echoes answer back in these deserted glades

She called a home. His virtue now? A hollow, aching space,

Where love was never spoken, just a cold, abstract embrace.

An orphan of her rectitude, adrift in perfect order,

His heart a tangled, rootless thing, beyond her tidy border.

II. The Weight of the Key

He held the key to justice firm, a beacon burning bright.

Defended truth, upheld the law, bathed always in its light.

But when his brother faltered, fell, stained by a desperate deed,

The judge within him slammed the gavel, fueled by a rigid creed.

He turned his face, invoked the law, let "justice" take its course,

Denied the plea, the mitigating force, the kinship’s source.

His brother vanished into cells, while he stood tall and praised

For his "unbending principle," through which the city blazed

With his renown. Yet late at night, beside a window wide,

He feels the phantom weight of chains he helped himself provide.

The key he holds unlocks no door to solace or release,

Just chambers of his solitude, where brotherhood finds no peace.

An orphan of blind equity, condemned by his own hand,

He walks a narrow, lonely path on unforgiving land.

III. The Nurse Who Looked Away

Her virtue bloomed in sterile halls, compassion her clear call.

She soothed the fevered, held the frail, gave comfort through it all.

Until the night the VIP arrived, demanding special care,

His wealth a shield, his voice a whip, polluting the hushed air.

Protocol bent, corners were cut, a quiet word was said

To shift resources, time, and skill towards that privileged bed.

Another patient, frail and old, with no such potent name,

Sank further in the shadows, lost within the whispered game.

She saw the need, the fading light, the monitor’s weak plea,

But bowed to pressure, clenched her jaw, and turned away to see

The VIP’s demands fulfilled. The old man slipped away,

Unnoticed, save by her own heart, corroding day by day.

Her scrubs feel stiff with complicity, her touch no longer pure;

The milk of human kindness soured, she knows not the cure.

An orphan of corrupted care, her healing hands feel bound,

By virtue sacrificed to power on consecrated ground.

IV. The Crumbling Altar

We built grand temples to the Good, with spires that scraped the sky,

Proclaimed our love for mercy, truth, where all could stand nearby.

We etched the words in stone and song: "Protect the weak, defend!"

Yet turned our gaze when children wept, refused to comprehend

The gulf between the soaring hymn and actions, small and mean.

We worshipped form, the outward show, the polished, righteous sheen,

While substance rotted from within, neglected and unseen.

Our charity became a tax, a shield against the sight

Of genuine, demanding need that pierced the pleasant light.

Our honesty, a weapon used to bludgeon and deride,

While kindness wilted, unobserved, its gentle flame denied.

The altar stands magnificent, a marvel to behold,

But cracks are spreading at its base, a story grimly told.

We are the orphans we created, wandering the nave

Of our own hollow monument, both victim and the knave.

The virtues we enshrined so high, abandoned at the door,

Leave us bereft, uncertain now what we are striving for.

V. The Well Runs Dry

Where does the orphaned virtue go? Does it evaporate

Like morning mist when cynicism seals our modern fate?

Or does it pool in hidden springs, beneath the crusted earth,

Waiting for hands unjaded yet, acknowledging its worth?

Perhaps it seeps into the roots of trees that stand alone,

Or whispers through the rustling leaves in a forgotten zone.

Maybe it fuels the quiet strength of those who bear the weight

Of others' failures, tending hope despite a cruel world's hate.

The nurse who does stay late, who holds the hand without a name,

The lawyer fighting pro bono, refusing wealth or fame,

The child who shares their meagre bread, the stranger offering aid

When dogma screams to turn away, unheeding and afraid.

These are the heirs apparent, though the legacy seems lost,

Paying the hidden tithe of care, regardless of the cost.

VI. The Long Vigil

The Orphans wander, marked by ghosts of what was meant to be.

The boy in the too-bright house, the judge beside the sea

Of his regret, the nurse who flinches at a monitor’s chime,

The countless more who feel the chill of this disjointed time.

They carry absence like a cloak, a virtue cast aside –

Not dead, perhaps, but deeply wronged, its guardians denied.

Is reconciliation found? Can fractured bonds be knit?

Perhaps not perfectly. The scar remains, a constant bit

Of evidence. But wisdom blooms in understanding's soil,

Acknowledging the complex cost, the arduous toil

Of living with the choices made, the paths we let decay.

The orphan’s strength lies in the gaze that does not look away

From the uncomfortable, the real, the mess we left behind.

In that clear sight, a different kind of virtue we might find.

VII. Dawn's Grey Light

So sing not hymns of virtue pure, untarnished and serene,

But of the orphans left behind on landscapes harsh and lean.

Sing of the hollow ache where principle outran its heart,

The chilling cost when rigid roles compel us to depart

From messy, human tenderness. Let this be understood:

True virtue isn't statuesque, nor merely being "good"

By rote or rule. It breathes and bleeds, it falters, it forgives,

It sees the orphan in the soul, the fractured life that lives

In shadowed corners we create. It dares to reach a hand

Not just to "them," but to ourselves, across the broken land.

For in admitting we are lost – these orphans, you and I –

We take the first, uncertain step beneath a greying sky

Towards a dawn where virtue means not leaving love behind,

But gathering the scattered shards with a more humble mind.

The orphans walk. They carry dust of altars proud and tall.

Perhaps from dust, a different strength can rise, embracing all.

Short Summary :

This introspective poem explores the hidden costs of rigid virtue—where moral absolutes, societal expectations, and self-righteousness leave behind emotional orphans. Through vivid vignettes—a son starved of affection by his dutiful mother, a judge who sacrificed his brother to the law, a nurse complicit in prioritizing privilege over care—it reveals how hollowed-out ideals fracture human connection. The poem laments the decay of true compassion beneath grand monuments of righteousness, yet finds fragile hope in those who still act with quiet kindness despite the wreckage. Ultimately, it calls for a more humble, forgiving virtue—one that acknowledges its own failures and embraces the messy humanity it once exiled.