My cup runneth over.

Beauty swells within--
where can it go?
Every outlet
has yet to develop
the capacity
emotion
wasted
or so it would seem
so I don't try
I grasp
aim to contain
like clutching swallows
anxious to soar
but each branch
is brittle
or green
there is no in-between
if thought was to fly
I fear thought would die.

This is where beauty
drowns in its own tears.