Only strong belts of endurance
Can hold back this fluid; maybe magical,
From pouring down one’s countenance.
It is the wheel barrow
That carries out the wreckage circumstance leaves
After shaking a life in its moments of dominance.
It is the silent words
That turn around dispositions
By showing blinded people
The different colours of sunlight.
It is the rain that sometimes keeps a waif company
And crowns some bar-raisers.
I am jealous
Because everyone sees it in oodles
When season wearing the right circumstance comes.
Because my well of tears
Is arid with nothingness.