when they cry

When the wet damp tears fall,
splashing off skin and bone and flesh,
dripping through cloth and softening color,
making flames' cool distance disappear in steam,
until the heat is under my face,
seeping through every pore of my chin,
every aspect of my lips,
fighting to fill every crevice of my mouth.

Like a flower on a sunny day,
do girls dance in the grass?
or is love a show, put on for ignant mice,
scrounging for every scrap of bread
thrown like second-hand smoke to paupers and kids.

do Children dance to the tune of feet?
or do feet dance to child's tune?
can we decide the difference between uninterested and bored?
or are we simply to lazy to care.

when i feel those drops of damp skin,
does it mean that god can cry?
or is it all the age-old tears of slaves;
rolled to the seas and up to clouds,
and back again, to soothe my lonely, wandering feet.