I’m remembering the lost art of crying
Of emotions being created
in fine precision
inside the heart

Being borne up to their peak at the eyelids
Rimming poised on the very brink
And then running down
One by perfect one

Immaculately shaped,
precisely timed droplets
That don’t destroy their individual identity
running into each other

I’m recalling the lost art of crying
Sobs are, after all, hiccups of a repressed soul
But the true beauty of tears
Is in the quiet, gentle rain of the heart

It cleans,
It nurtures,
It soothes,
And it needs no wailing or browbeating

These are the only real tears, the creation of the lost art of crying.

3 thoughts on “The Art Of Crying”
  1. The taste of salt in this gentle rain is the most welcome one on her tongue,
    Whenever she manages to cry in the regular humdrum that she calls life.
    Entertaining and being entertained, take up so much space and time,
    That she has forgotten what it feels like to be home,
    What is called peace of mind,
    What is contentment.

    So welcome the rain I say. The parched heart is calling for it.

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