Pilgrimage
Tears stream down
caressing one’s cheek,
waking every pore,
creating awareness—
for songs of sorrow
penetrate the movement,
breaking the barrier
with nothing more than
a whisper—
a whimper from the friction.
Glazed eyes fill only to spill over.
Closed eyes postpone another
downpour.
Eyelids are left speckled with dew.
Quivering lips
create a quake; the vibrations
force the fleshy shells open,
displaying a crimson
web of hurt,
realizing it was sunny all along.
Christopher S. Malone 