The One Who Mourns For a Failed Reason
Tears are obvious,
those teardrops do whisper many… many things.
Some are frozen wounds, some are freshly drawn,
the purpose of belonging.
And she asked her father,
”Am I an unwanted child,
was I ever a pretty one?”
Lots and lots of sounds these days,
some are coldly handed and undone.
I wasn’t there to decipher how birds still fly so stubborn,
so cheerfully in the sky
Perhaps, It’s a woe to the one,
who mourns for a failed reason, nothing to live by.
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