Soft Trickles of Melancholy {boys don’t cry}

on the desert dusty parchment

soft trickles of melancholy

write their rivulets

 

falling onto the desk

to break the hymen of silence,

so that the world, can hear

 

the sanguine wine

leaks from out the eyes

and bloodies the bitten lips

 

and that melancholy ache

can never be quenched

under a searing, fiery sun

 

the scorpion of fate

curls back through time

to sting and sting again

 

the scorching wadis

of just, righteous mind

tell us always, it is so

 

the heart entombed

in the dungeon of mind

as yet, still stirs

 

it beats its timpani

off the score

to no preordained libretto

 

one day that concrete damn

will start to leak

and at that very first fissure

 

on the desert dusty parchment

soft trickles of melancholy

will start their rivulets, anew

 

the tear of dew

will rip out an oasis

a font, a spring

 

and desert lore will say

as the aeons pass,

“That is where love was born!”