Threaded Tears.

I know you weep,
though what for
you weep
don't know.

A well of angel's
tears
in remembrance of
more pleasant hours,

ascend from crimson to
the tributaries,

Idle Tears - Edward Robert Hughes

while you gaze upon fresh,
blushed harvests
that reminisce of spent
childhoods.

Your sadness pure
as the first stroke
of dawn's
paintbrush,

the water of your eyes
refreshing as all
monumental moments -

As ancient dynasties
waking from their
slumber.

Though haunting as the
last gasp of
breath,
or the cries of the
crow at midnight -

your innocence but a memory
in unforgiving time.






© Cecil Field