I struck my skin upon the barren thorn,
And life-red rose to surface warm.
I stared into it-bubble-deep,
As from the wound,
my skin did weep.
It traced a path slow to the floor,
Reminding me of days before,
And all the roads I dared to tread
Each drop,
a whisper of paths I\'ve fled.
It showed the way I made it down,
From mountain smile to valley frown.
Each fall returned me to my start,
A bleeding map of shattered heart.
The droplets fell with quiet grace,
Coating grey cement\'s cold face.
At first, it seemed a wasteful spill,
Like years I\'d lost against my will.
But then, with every crimson line,
I saw the tears I\'d left behind
Each drop a ghost,
a dried-up cry,
That never found the ground to dry.