Into his bowl

I watched as tears streaked down his face.
Slowly they ran the tracks; parallel
The left won…
He collected them in a glass bowl
And in it he stared.
His gaze burned through the clear fluid that gradually filed the bowl.
They; his tears, continuously invited their compatriots
For they never seemed to stop streaming down his eyes.
There were no sobs, No wails, no cries, no sound.
Just nothing
The eerie silence of his tears sucked the colour out of the room
…his bowl was getting full.

My trapped whisper sounded like
“Somebody, plug this spring!
Somebody, plus this broken heart or we would all drown.
These tears will take us all away.
It would engulf all our hearts and leave us gasping for light.
This broken heart will suck us all in.
Somebody, please!
Please plug this heart, lest we get lost in its chasm”.

The room had turned grey.
The distant sounds around had faded off; all now a gone
Desperately, my eyes searched him. . .  hopefully his soul
It quested for either the gaping hole from where the tears rolled out
Or the headstone by the chasm where such sorrow comes from.
…his bowl was almost full.

The heart is worst where it is lonely in company.
The heart is most broken when sad in the midst of celebration.
The heart is most desperate when it is dead in the arms of life.
The heart knows the worst pain, when it is denied its love.
The heart is most sick, when its hope is deferred.

His bowl was full and so he reached for another one.

Someone, please plug this heart,
Lest we all drown.



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