I cried yesterday...
why does it seem that
all my poems start like this?
I cried because I could.
Not sarcasm, reality.
This moment was different.
When I cried I didn't wimper.
I didn't pour tears out of
my face.
No. I cried in singular.
I cried one tear.
One sad, stranded tear.
This tear didn't have a place
and as I stand and listen to
the "love" of the of age children,
I wonder if this long
stride along my cheek
was a representation.
Of me, never, but of the
kids who are older than
18.
Of those who focus
on the soil, rather than
the ground they walk on.
This tear becomes
my shoe tongue, my will
as my teeth in the cleats.
This leaves the moist
stride as a unclean,
worn lace.
Policeman set to
arrest, but no dirty
cops want to show
their face.
The origin of the
tear is honest, for
it grew from my
right eye.
Cleats on feet to journey
to another fallen soldier,
when I cry.
