These, my tears, fall on barren ground

These, my tears fall on barren ground.
I feel them burn from the corners of my eyes,
and stream down my cheeks.
I feel them touch and pull at my chin,
before the fall.

I seem the fall, and land,
upon the black soft wiry hair,
that grows a thicket before my sex.
They land, and for a moment,
seem to sting, but that is only
the sobs that shudder in my chest.

I am gone for want of you.
This leaving I cannot bear,
these thoughts I cannot air,
this rain of love lost I cannot share.

I cannot. These two
two
two words
these two words
are the only words that matter.

I paid the pain,
and grovlled in your lap,
before your cock,
both phsyical and in words.

You stuffed that condescension into me
all your boasts and brags I took,
and sheltered thee on that pedestal of my desire.

But it was foolish whoring.
I should have known.

The droplet of that first tear now crawls on my skin,
search path through my forest thicket,
and not pricks me at the crest of that
which so many men havesought to break
and batter down by their bombast.

That worship of the cock,
my face hammered down to submit.

And so often I have not,
only to do it for thee.

The burning rivulet of now sits a cusp the cliff,
my cliff that is gateway between the last fragment of public skin,
and the entrance to my inner self.

My fury at my weakness now collides with a self-loathing
a self-despair,
a self-hatred.
It is the air,
the air I cannot breath.

I cannot
these
these two
these two words
are all my world.

On pillows primped and propped,
I wail and wane in my confidence.
I cannot, I cannot
I am not.

And only that tingle of tear,
that now sorches my raw exposure,
makes me know that life is still alive.

I am, because that tear touches,
the door that covers the mountain
that so often has leapt up to Mohammed.
That moutnain that in me is hidden, and rises from inner sea,
like the infernos of Ha'wai'i, that rise from abyssmal depths.

I am, only because the now rage cold in me.
I am because that tear now slowly flows,
it flows over my hidden ground.

It reaches that, my entrance.
Does it, or is it only my imagining?
It must be the burning of shame, not in physical world,
but in my mind alone.
That tear must have fallen into barren ground,
by now.

And yet, I feel it still,
and all its sisters that are now a stream upon my face,
cutting a new channel.

I feel the eyes of so many upon me,
so much shame for failures past and failures yet to come.

And at my entrance that ghostly tear now falls
and smears itself to a ghastly acid dew.
How I wish that it could sear me shut,
never to open again.

These my tears, they fall
the fall is on barren ground.