it’s not that the eyes can’t see at times
it’s just the brain that can’t read –
the pain, dip as cells in our body; smeared on smiles
it’s just that our brains can’t read
beautiful things have scars too
that you are yet to see them don't mean they have not
beautiful people feel pain too –
it’s just so well-hidden that eyes always hit a blindspot
and after it’s happened to another Dante
we all gather to cry, mourn on crumbled mountains
But of what good is cry to a soul that aches no more?
of what use is remorse to a heart that beats no more?