I’ve been wondering why
do I not cry
when they leave life
anymore?
Their last moments stir
like storms inside,
but pores no longer release
the pain.

I guess it does happen
eventually
in a life lived breathing
through wars of
spirits and swords,
in a life lived fighting
the flesh of fallen fruit,
in a life lived surviving others’
lost battles with survival,
in a life lived watching
innocent vessels taken ruthlessly
too soon,
in a life lived feeling
for lost pieces
in the unsolvable darkness,
in a life lived searching
for what is human
anymore,

I guess it does happen
even when the river is new
and the well is full,
to exist
everflowing and parched;
with soft hearts swarming through
a hardened world,
it’s possible to run out of tears.