A teardrop is a life that's lost,
warm and salty against cloth,
and it falters on fast-held hands
clutched and grasping at rough
wool. It stands, as a dying monument
pooling in rivulets, and tough
against old leather gloves, it runs
down into cooling nothingness,
it runs over cracked shoes, the dirt
sown of old love, and to the ground.
And we still clutch at care-worn beads,
bound, for teardrops do not stop
loving when their life is lost.
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Author:
Reivax Camlost (
Offline) - Published: January 23rd, 2020 07:30
- Category: Love
- Views: 41
- Users favorite of this poem: benevolentbluebabe
Offline)
Comments2
Sometimes i wonder what my teardrops are for, what has motivated them to appear. Reading you today gives me food for thought,
Really well expressed . Sad but beautiful words
Thank you
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