Teardrop

There, there.
Don’t despair
of making me understand
what makes the sand
tight-packed on the shore.
I know, and O,
my eyes
yearn to cry.
How often do you experience
the baffling inconvenience
of having
to hide or show a feeling?
Plashy they rolling fall
in response to some call
from the deep dark depths of the well 
within you, making your throat swell 
in choking back the waves
springing from unchartered caves
of emotion seeping weeping through 
and from the core of you
to erupt battering at lids lowered, 
stinging fists powered
by brine
thread the mesh of your lashes,
drop, dashing to death, splashes. 
When was the last time
you flowered in sublime
joy and laughed out loud
to a sky without a cloud?
Well, rain must wash the sky
and you must be blue-eyed
before
a rainbow
can appear
and the clouds clear.
In Skid Row there’s a tear
in every beer.
So don’t resist and store
it within you, just let go
on my shoulder, little one,
and weep for the sun.


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