Greed of Compassion

What's the binding agent in our will to care for one another?

 Write the checks and disappear
One not so special autumn day
For sure, the cause is coming clear
No resolution, not without pay

It doesn't mean a thing, because our sources are tapped
The timbre of your voice once sprung forth
But now a known indian giver
Ordering promises I can't deliver, and yet not a sliver
Not one

Compassion, the voice's companion
Left its yellow cloak on the green floor
Among only heavy footprints and a sea of blue
But in such emptiness, even so little could hide it

Time, and time alone could drain the sea
When in this place sun could never find me
But when the hands have stopped reaching and the footprints washed away
Reduced to almost nothing
Only then I see the yellow cloak left among the green floor

I see it, and I wearily acknowledge
That perhaps a once familiar timbre will be back to resonate and maybe, even, that when the tired hands reach again,
Will be selfless
Be selfless..
In a lifetime at least, the return was documented
By only a will so strong to remember
But as it became engrained, and I looked up to verify the memory's perfection
It was gone again, and this time, as my head descended to a familiar discomfort
The green floor was bare, with not a cloak or sea to cushion the fall