Tears


Are we but tears hitching rides
in the ever-dissolving past?
Do tears come as a result of pain,
or does pain come as a result of tears
retching themselves from the dark caches of repression?

Oh, to brush the back of one's hand
across the cheek of reflective truth,
remove the reluctant tears of sadness forever,
to see the glow of trenchant moisture
glisten the eyes with joy.

To hear laughter begetting the peaceful arc of rainbows
upon the bridge to solace and reform.

Perhaps our expectations are forever doomed
to drown beneath the weeping of yesterday,
the inward turn where tears await their freedom… but, from what?

It seems the quantitative question dominates our existence,
but is there not another pattern-of-choice to our reality?

Perhaps to clench the gravitas of goodness,
where tears are but transparent bliss
for revealing our need to be,
to act,
to become.

What if…

This life is but an honorarium,
temporary and qualitative,
seeking some kind of essence that explains our choices,
our regrets,
our reform,
our awareness of weeping’s rationale.

Often…

From precipice hanging,
the tear stares back at us for understanding,
offering simple reflection
just before we wipe it away,
banishing its clarity
into but evaporation…

for now.