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...
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