My Goddess I will catch your tears,
Lady Athena sits among the people
In the middle of the street and
She mourns them, she dawns the sackcloth,
Beats her chest, and wails to the heavens.
She is in an eternal state of grieving,
Unable to forgive, to heal, to forget, or accept
The brokenness of the shadows on that
Crowded street, the apparitions bump against each other,
“I beg your pardon” they say as they tip their hats.
But my Goddess they do not see, no,
They are otherworldly, how can they behold
The sweet girl holding tight the
Hand of her giant teddy bear?

She is mourning the living, grieving the earth,
The land is dying and the stink rises to the heavens,
Noxious vapors that form clouds and burst
the tears of maggots and corpses. And even
The sky knows that she is widowed.
And the joke remains that the living call themselves alive.
These zombies claw their way out of their beds
Shared with strangers from strange places and strange drinks.
They rise from the sheets like the grave,
The dirt and grime covering their innermost parts,
And they put lipstick on their dead lips and blow kisses,
That land like Medusa's gaze and they do not,
They do not know that this is not living.

A funeral is in order, to let them live in peace.
Wrap them all in white as the children they are.
Children who have never known affectionate touch
And children for whom affection has become a curse,
Touched not just once but too much, enraged and shamed.
Yes lust is amongst us as a pestilence, a disease.
It lingers in our midst like flies we cannot swat away.
And none is fair, none is right, none is just.
So a funeral is in order, a tear-stained chant,
Rising like incense from the pyre because
The drama of mankind is a tragedy.

We seek catharsis like a savior, we need purging,
Tears that roll like rivers of justice and streams of healing.
Living water that comes from dead flesh.
The saltiness returning to the salt and the oceans refilled.
And let your ragged breath, tired from the night,
Dry from the bawling and midnight confessions, let it fall.
Let it hang thick and reside fully as you sigh,
“this world is not as it should be, it is not enough.”
In fact it is not as it was intended, it has been forged.
Emerson and Wordsworth have praised our false Mona Lisa.
But what else can they do? How else could they know?
So let lose the dam beneath your eyes,
Make way to the tomb and roll back the stone,
And mourn your wounded hearts, peel away wrath
And scorn, refute shame and guilt. Just cry.
For though you live, your heart has died,
And it is not your fault, no not your fault,
So let the tears run wild and be free, be free
And live truly once more.