How poetic can you be?

The simplest tears do not evolve

Upon our faces. They appear as a sudden storm,

A brief bout of emptying skies

Upon a heavy grey cloth

Through which little air can enter our hurting lungs.

But then there are the other tears

Who whisper over us,

A roiling baroque of emotions,

Fourth dimensional pain,

fractals of pain,

Each layer an echoed reflection

Of its larger brethren down

Down into depths no electron microscope

Dare to try and see.

And if we are finally free from the bulk of THIS

We become a god,

See, past, present and future,

As clearly as we see

The vile necessity

That gave us this sight:

Crucifixion as the bringer of the light.