These tear ducts are barren, dry, and void of overflowing release.
My sleep is filled with dreams that my eyes be filled with streams.
The suffering is the easiest part.
Getting through this arid landscape is difficult, if not impossible.
The window opens to the breeze
as I smell the sweet summery air through savory trees.
How I recall the past and days of hurt.
Times I wish I could be even as high as dirt.
I wander through my own Forest of Arden,
not feeling care,
not a scare,
life in full color I dare…say.
Cobalt blue filled the sky.
Tear ducts still empty—that well, still dry.
As I’ve grown older,
the callouses of life have made me stronger,
perhaps why I can cry no longer.
If I could only wash my troubles away.
Tears, please come without delay.