I was entombed in a world,
a world that knew nothing of my inflamed, ulcerate heart,
a world that I had expected to carry a friend,
a world that was nothing other
than a pit of quicksand seizing my fatal dreams,
dreams that laid spilled across the tear soaked kitchen table,
a table that juddered from holding up a volcano body regretfully erupting against two palms,
palms that masked a crumbling face,
a face that begged to be buried in the shoulders of the spectator on the opposite side of the table.
Tears fell with a pang of shame, melting into the grout of the tile floor,
a floor that held the stale memories of fine wine and laughter.
It was tears that fell, tears that dried;
tears that had been contained within the brittle gates of a demanding schedule.
It was tears noticed,
tears that needed to hear truth,
the truth of His grace and unconditional love.