They told me that nothing could be destroyed
just rewound
recycled
reused
they told me that there's nothing new under the sun
if that's true then maybe
the vibrations from a piano's keys
once shook the earth, collapsing
mountains.
the energy as his pencil moved across the page
finally—finally—
telling her how much she means to him
may be spent years later
digging her grave.
a last breath—
part of the storm whipping the sea into a frenzied turmoil.
the words on a birth certificate—
the ashamed, shaky
scribbles
on a suicide note.
and your tears, falling
slowly
slowly—
the rain that fell on a parched desert
the drops that broke the dam
cascading
rushing roaring down...
perhaps the
ocean
itself was hesitantly coursing its way down your face
unable to be restrained any longer.
the walls had broken
and here was the flood
So have courage!
you take a deep breath of the air
that once was a shout of victory
why are you so afraid?
the unknown is irrelevant
for all there is
is all there ever was.
your words insisting that you're always fine
are the lament of those conquered long ago.
the first breath you breathed
was the last another took
and the rain that pours now, incessantly
falling
beating
cleansing
those are your tears
one by one
each is older than the human race
more powerful than a flood
they are the rivers that etched out
the Grand Canyon
they are the gales
that sank a thousand ships
they are the first raindrops
of a storm, falling on your windowpane...
and somehow you can endure these
whirlwinds.
for the times you think you are weak, remember
the hurricanes
the floods
the waterfalls
and torrents
and rainstorms
that fall from your eyes
drop by drop
I am always amazed
that still you stand through
what drowned thousands.
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