Cries; their flow like rain no longer in a masked disguise,
A lament to the lonely, raise their fell unbending cry.
The wind, a blizzard, blows so harshly through the bitter chills,
Of trying to forget the past, yet nothing stops or stills.
Cries; their sting a poison from a curling monstrous beast,
A somber sadness so alive, though caused by those deceased.
Moans rise to stem the looming waves of endless, crushing tides,
Yet cries, a stalwart soldier, stand up for their proper prides.
Cries; a musical symphony to a drifting, long lost friend;
So forgotten and forlorn, that only time will ever mend.
Flowers litter wilting graves of tears' so softly fading tune,
Lingering on lost lives that they have hatefully, haggardly hewn.
~Sounds of a Cry~
Copyright © Beth Watkins