Turbulence

He wants to cry,
But the tears, they come no more;
Every last drop, has dried up,
And taken with it,
all his hopes.

But cry he shall,
Tears, he’ll make himself.
Turning clear to red,
From living to dead,
Until he bleeds no more.

1 comment:

H.G said...

but there remain one part,
all the clamant needs,
which fullfil.
he loves his lachrymose heart.