They say, the world almost drowned.
The day she wept.
Those salty tears.
So sacred and immaculate.
That the ground began to crack.
Like the conscience of god.
Crumbling into sadness.
For she was so young.
So lost in the dream of idealism.
Now forever lost in her own madness.
To collapse but not to shatter.
Yet veins of the break spread deep.
Frozen in the reckoning of our time.
Managing a mosaic of madness.
Fleeted days, encapsulated by hurried tensions.
Pickled in the wine of the year.
Sadness stalked my fields.
You set fire to my home.
It burns still, the flames will not recede.
Your words breathing oxygen to its devastation.
Havoc and Consequence 