A teardrop,
Sour and sweet,
Soaking feet of ants
Quenching their thirst
Drying at their feet.
Leaving a soul in consternation.

A ball watery with reflections
Of the rosy days of yore.
Of fingers intertwined,
Of breathes held at the beckon of hearts.

Are tears balloons
That we fly in as a source of respite,
No matter the subliminal potent they hold?
We just have to turn to the breeze.

At times we reminisce on their silvery mirage,
Just to get the smirk of our ashed selves.
And touch on the marks they leave.
Of despondency along the rivulets!

© 2014.

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