We are not meant to live in pain.
Sorrow is not a possession.
Cries in night long sessions of ruminating is a virus.
Easily caught and seldom expelled.
Our movements kicked up winds that carried our wailing.
We tote burdens like a beast in a dance with no music and no lead.
Never to far from tears our eyes burn, our teeth grind, our thoughts slip through with no consideration.
We are islands by mistake and the tide has forgotten us.
If I reached out to another one my hand is rejected and the wind will carry my wailing.
My sorrow has become my luggage and it’s packed with memories of my hand being rejected.
So I set sail, but this wind won’t carry my wailing, but me, to offer another hand.