Tears on a Sunday
Hot
Scalding
Risen unbidden
For those left behind
A steady stream of out of focus faces
Bathed in them, immersed in them
Scorched by them
Scorned by them
As by the Ghibhilli Wind raging beyond the window
Each tear drop contains an image
Split
A twain-ness of opposites
OF what IS and what still MIGHT BE
Christ, too, weeps within and behind me
His hands secured to wood cannot reach them.
But mine can in His name.
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