Here they come
rolling and warm,
fresh from a spring of pain
welling up
without warning, without guise
along the banks of tired eyes
waiting and wailing,
drinking in its course
of the inevitable
before the wild fall rushes in,
then impatient and carefree
like a rivulet it runs
along the parched contours
of a lifeless expanse
mating with the lips
burning with desire and laden with salt
to pry open the wound
that woke up a bleeding cry
trapped inside a scarred soul
waiting for redemption