Tears

I'll flood my stone pallet, strike my last nerve to crumble Oh! How I wish the winds would change and know my name today. But, alas, the ducts are flooded salt once again in weak spring deliberations and breath. I'll never freeze them silver at this rate... Perhaps, I shouldn't worry so and cry cathartic tears on whims without a modest upward glance to see who caught my whimpers yet again... After all, rinsing the eyes of woe once or twice in a chain of depressing events shouldn't make one weak, it should make them sensitive, in touch with who they really are, even if the wind refuses them...