The Hypocrite's Sermon

I was raised in a chapel of care,
Where love for the others was everywhere.
They said "help those in need, give what you can,"
A creed like sunlight, warming my hands.

But one day they whispered behind the hymn,
"Not those, not them—keep your kindness within."
I blinked in confusion at the sudden divide,
Where love turned to borders, and charity lied.

And the words they spoke cut deep with disdain,
"Don't be foolish, don't share your gain.
This world isn't built for your tender intent,
Only fools would give more than they spent."

They called my compassion a dangerous spell,
"That's socialism, communism"—as if from hell.
To care for the many was treated as sin,
And their teachings of love became paper-thin.

I grew up believing in a communal sky,
But it fractured with "us" and "them" by and by.
I learned that compassion was tied to a flag,
And my gentle heart was branded a drag.

Is it strange, or just me, that I find it absurd?
To love all at first, then choke back the word?
They gave me the scriptures, the teachings so grand—
But told me to limit the reach of my hand.