ink tears.

One more depressing one, then later today I shall tell you about my weekend in Jim Thorpe.


The tears of the sky pelt the pavement,
Falling into puddles and a soothing rhythm.
The birds are gone now, like the sun,
As bright lightning cuts the clouds.

The rain soaks the carpet beneath my feet,
The chair creaks as I shift my weight,
Shrinking away from the slanted downpour.

The pen on the page runs in black rivulets,
Mimicking the cascade of mascara on my face.
My sobs are lost in the steady rumble,
As are the words I say that fall on your ears.