She spoke of tears as if, a translucent demon.
As a nightmare that is grappled with over and over again…
until it is finally shed.
Had it not been a means of self-preservation for all of her confined years…
I would have agreed.
Ironic what we are taught and what we do…
slowly becomes a watercolor mask we cannot take off.
Best not left to my own devices.
If those devices be broken.
What if the vices in proper fashion…
The gravity of ash.
The implication of timber.
The mask of pedigree.
lost in a tunnel of vision.
Only surfacing for the blind to see.
there is no salt in my tears.
I let the injured waves wash over me.
Inherently out of focus…
I have no inclination to letting the broken be.