Teardrop

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A tear forms,
Rounding into a sphere,
I can see no corners,
And neither color.

From the corner of my eye,
I watch as it collects,
Sculpted with emotion,
From my sorrow.

But as it falls,
It loses form,
And spills everything,
It once held so tightly.

Can a swipe of a finger,
A breeze of the wind,
Wash away a tear,
So delicately fashioned?

I wonder,
If there’s a trace it leaves,
For if they were colored,
Would they not leave stains?

But tears, too,
Is blood from one’s heart,
Is there no punishment,
Only because it doesn’t spill red?

Then I realize,
The capacity of our vision,
That its vivid qualities,
Become blank behind our eyes.

Our empty image,
Of this colorful reality,
Is after all what makes us,
This limited humanity.





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