A sonnet. Conform the words to the rhythm, not the rhythm to the words:

Your tears do not solve anything at all
They merely make your eyes puffy and red.
It does not matter where the droplets fall—
In public show, or in one’s private bed
They still have no pow’r, no magical charm;
Tell me when salty tears have done as much
As stopping death, disease, and physical harm,
Can tears mimic a mother’s soothing touch?
There is no plant which in that water grows
And there’s no beast that drinks from tear-fed streams
Would merchants trade my tears for food or clothes?
And could those tears fulfill my weakest dreams?

But then somehow still, down my dirty cheek,
I feel the trace of a droplet, a sparkl’ng creek.


Anonymous
09:51:47 PM