SEA OF TEARS
Whilst looking upon your picture
I saw a tear trickling down
And I thought to myself
How sweet, one tear
It was soon followed by another
Another and another until
The very floor boards were damp
As I gazed on in astonishment
The picture raised its fist and shook it
Before collapsing into a corner
And hiding its face in shame
I thereupon began to hear words
Of bitter laments and accusations
Emanating from every corner
Thinking the roof would surely collapse
Beneath the combined weight of them
I opened the door and walked outside
Stood in the yard and watched
As the clouds darkened the sky
And the sun retreated behind them
The night the moon joined sun and earth
To silently stare and frown upon me
It seemed as if all were mourning
And I was the cause of it
So I started to weep as well
As I did, I began remembering things
Like a dream I once had
Of a poor man stranded in a desert
Naked and chained to the ground
And weeping most pitifully
For no matter how hard he tried
He could not free himself
I then recalled a poor soul
I had kept saying 'no' to
Because I could not remember him
And I started crying harder
How weary you must be
Of my poor, mechanical heart
And yet, it was not always so
Once, I wept so inconsolably
All anybody wanted was for it to stop
I did eventually stop crying
Feeling loving and remembering
Please forgive me
I've often felt like a dandelion
On a warm summer's day
It only takes one strong gust
To scatter my seeds to the wind
Like people who blow in
Then out again on the next breeze
No more to be depended on
Than a bit of feathery fluff
It was not so very long ago
I felt my stem about to break
And of what use is a flower
Without her stem?
I'd always managed to bend
To whatever winds blew my way
Until I found myself
Caught up in a raging storm
Surely, the end must be near
Even should I survive the gale
Winter would soon find me
Slowly withering away in the cold
For the briefest of moments
I actually believed it was true
And then I remembered that
You really did love me
You are like a red violin
I once bought in a shop
Though I could neither afford it
Nor the lessons to play it
I took it home with me anyway
As I knew it deserved better
Than a dusty old corner
In a dusty old shop
Most of the time I tell myself
I've no reason to possess it
It really should belong to one
More capable of cherishing
Such a delicate instrument
Instead, I keep it locked in the attic
It is foolish I know
How I stay up every night
Endeavoring to teach myself
Only it is my little secret
Because wouldn't they all laugh
To see me playing violin
There was once a poor lion
Who caught his paw in a trap
Passersby milled about and ogled
But none dared venture too close
Let alone endeavored to free it
Since they did not quite trust him
Not to pounce and devour them
If given the opportunity
He was rather ferocious looking
And more than likely angry as well
After sitting so long in a trap
'Perhaps, it is simply his fate'
They would comment to one another
All the while feeling a tad ashamed
Despite the dangers involved
But I do not feel that way
You do not seem so dangerous
As hungry, sad and hurt
Perhaps given a little kindness
You might even be tame enough
To be my big and beautiful cat
Sleep under the sun every day
And eat from a silver bowl
How does that sound?
I once fell in love
With a very strange boy
Who only allowed me to see
One side of his face
The other side was hidden
As if by a mask or shadow
For a long time he carried on thus
Until at last he could no longer
As I began to glimpse the other side
I found it twisted in anger and grief
So deep was this well of sadness
I felt certain to be sucked in
So I began to wander away
Yet, no matter how far I went
I could still hear him singing
Faintly, then louder and louder
Until drowned out everything else
Only I really didn't mind
By that time I'd come to realize
I loved both sides equally
So the next time I saw the strange boy
I kissed him on both cheeks
Then gently chided him
Never to hide his face from me again
Filing down a path so steep
They leave the ruins of their keep
Donned in coarse black robes and hoods
Prostrate on stretchers or barefoot
On the way one calls a hymn
And soon the rest are joining in
Until at last their voices merge
Into an otherworldly dirge
At last they reach the field below
All covered in late winter's snow
The wood stockade is wet and cold
And guarded by a pack of wolves
The able bodied climb the ladders
The sick are thrown in from their stretchers
The stakes are set afire by torch
On a chilly morn in March
Damp wood billows clouds of smoke
Until the stockade is engulfed
As the priests lead chants of mirth
To celebrate their handiwork
Hear the ghastly sounds and stench
Of choking gasps and roasting flesh
Yet, through it all can still be heard
The chanting of the funeral dirge
Lights extinguished one by one
In burning pyres of flesh and bone
Not one walled town nor mountain fort
Shall survive the hungry wolf
Shallow graves of blackened bones
Where once existed fields of gold
The last of them shall soon be gone
Because this world is not their home
Not a statue, plaque or trace
Marks remembrance of their fates
And yet, their memories live on
Because this world is not our home
You must not think it isn't kind
To walk the gray halls of the blind
Explaining rivers, trees and falls
To eyes that only see stone walls
I know the sun exists somewhere
Because you told me it was there
It lurks behind the clouds and rain
Waiting to shine down again
I know the sea and sky are blue
Because you told me it was true
I know that goodness will prevail
Because you promised that it shall
How tedious it all must seem
To visit someone else's dream
Just to find a dreary prison
Full of monsters, ghosts and demons
You think she finally comprehends
Just to watch her drown again
Gulping in the salty sea
Pulled down by her own empathy
So I cannot help but wonder
Why you take on such a bother?
When all your hopes dry up and wither
And everyone says to forget her
Somehow, you always soldier on
Just like the steadfast heart you are
The lines upon your patient face
Carved deeper with each passing day
There once lived an erudite young man
So gifted in every subject
Family, friends and neighbors sought him out
And strangers traveled to consult him
Whether it be philosophy or science
Music or mathematics
He seemed to excel at everything
And possess great potential for the rest
As a child he was a precocious prodigy
Impressing teachers and peers alike
Without exciting envy or animosity
As he was charming and engaging as well
'One day he shall travel the world
And achieve wondrous things in it'
They knowingly confided in each other
'And we can say we knew him first'
Just as the rose was set to bloom
The fickle hand of fate struck most cruelly
As the young man lost all ambition
And sank into a void of despondency
Now and again he would endeavor
To pull himself out of his apathy
Only to fall deeper into what seemed
Like a dark and gaping wound
A laceration in the fabric of his soul
None of his talents seemed to mend
Perhaps because everything came so easily
Nothing had the means to satisfy
Unexpectedly, in the midst of darkest despair
The fickle hand of fate struck again
In truth, she was nothing like him
But perhaps this was the beauty of it
Like a snow white sheet of paper
On which no words had yet been written
She was an enthusiastic student
Who took great interest in her studies
Listening attentively to every word
She seemed to thrive under his tutelage
And the challenge rallied him as well
Out of his boredom and dissatisfaction
Until inexplicably and without cause
She herself grew bored and dissatisfied
'For all your knowing,' she declared one afternoon
'You hardly bother to know me
Do never you wonder why I tolerate
Your demands and endeavors to mold me?'
The boy was taken aback at the words
But more so at the tone
Which implied exasperation on her part
Over extreme ignorance on his part
However, a strange and curious feeling
Compelled him to ask her
As her answer tumbled out
In a confusing torrent of emotion
The painful hollowness in his chest
Began to well up with something indescribable
In that moment he forgot all about
The novel he was writing
And the music he was composing
As all the stories, equations and theories
The whole universe and everything in it
Gently melted into a great nothingness
Like a snow white sheet of paper
On which no words had yet been written
Indeed, he seemed to forget everything
He had heretofore been so certain of
Until he realized to his great relief
That he really knew nothing at all