Tears on a Sunday
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
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.