Rain is merely recycled tears.

Drip,
drip,
drip . . .
little drops of ambiance fall,
running with smeared, black mascara
into wrinkles--my badge of age.
Drip,
drip,
drip . . .
Tears have eroded the fine lines of time
awash with tiny, lost lashes--
that surrendered to misery.
Drip,
drip,
drip . . .
the corners of my mouth tremble--
wanting to smile--but too weak;
somehow my insides feel better.
Drip,
drip,
drip . . .
precious tears have been cried, empty.
I think angels catch them to use
to relieve the darkest, drought days.
Drip,
drip,
drip . . .
little drops will make a bouquet
that flourishs, flowering without decay
though petals eventually droop, fall . . . someday.