Teardrop Fate
While places vary across earth,
there is one where grief’s waste piles.
Atop gravestone where whispers flow,
it drips and drags where gravel bumps and scripture is engraved,
leading to fertile land
where one’s lost heart lays.
Where sheets and feather tangle,
screams and hair pulled and caught,
it is breathed in where fabric makes tracks,
and soaks the pained resting eyes of a lost heart.
In sterile and dreaded halls,
performance forgotten and all weight shifted,
and life’s direction now unknown due to ignorant laxity,
onlookers and a greater shift keep the lost heart internal and silent.
Our world spins but our sinews,
our tissues grow damper as we cry
whatever reason may be
whoever we call out for saviour,
we bathe ourselves as systole squeezes grief to the world.
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