The Real Tears
Those melancholic eyes and downturned lip,
Resembling not so much a whining dog
As sorrow crafted with a stagehand’s whip
Or acted by some theatre’s thespian cog,
Did glisten once with tears of salt and truth,
Conveying more the fear of a gazelle
Than mocking looks of crocodiles uncouth;
And thus protective instincts came to swell.
With words of consolation and replies
Of wordless love addressed upon the ear,
I tried to tease out sweet chirrups and sighs,
And out the pores the flaming fever steer.
Ebullience half-drowned by th’urge to weep
Recalled the duty love had made us keep.
Copyright © Steven Ilott | Year Posted 2018
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