Why do tears well up from deep within,
like a fountain of sadness inside.
Whenever we think of our love unrequited,
it bubbles forth showing the world our misery.
A simple touch can unravel the labyrinth,
allowing the flow of an unimpeded soul,
while parting thins the treacle of love.
Soon it becomes a hissing brook,
with no redeemable course to follow.
It swirls up filling the cistern,
until we can hold no more;
days will dawn when we suffer,
from the pain of this cornucopia.
Strands of memory perhaps the missing keys,
to unlock the gates of our brimming weir.
When the trickle is subsumed by a deluge,
our innards pour out in vexatious hue,
until we are left but a dried up desert.
The sands cover our deepest treasure,
wilting in the withering sun and
leaving our fount phlegmatically arid.
