still the melancholy tears
drip on winds unbound,
slick silver needles cascading
in sheets, the puddles'
rippling waters reflecting
dark erratic heartbeats
punctured with jagged pain
of another home again found,
then bombed, and was disarrayed,
but the sluicing drops impenetrable
in the velvet blinds of my umbrella,
housing only warm lonely mortal tears,
tears of a maddening human heart.
When I cry for the pettiest of reasons I am reminded of my paltry irrelevance, how many people's hearts are bruised far worse than mine: those whose homes are ravaged by war and violence and brutal injustice, children unsheltered from all the cruelties in this world, and then I am suddenly aware of their tremendous suffering, and then I think, my tears shouldn't just be for mine own.
