The sound of a teardrop
The Sound of a teardrop Midnight seeps through a crack and morphs into dawn. Flowers will drink of the morning dew and wither in this lopsided pattern of faded blues. Seasons are fleeting from weddings and wakes to wedding veils turned into funeral shrouds. Ebbing heavenwards. Where is hope? I am trying to tell a tale that shifts like a gale.I am more afraid of living than I am of dying. Blood to the earth.Tears,black and graveyards.Song to the skies.Dew,moon and sunlight.The night bedecked with stars lays in his slumber in broken silence.Perhaps the dead have a place of their own where they are locked up and tamed.Perhaps they dance and sing in their own haze . For what is death but black and blue with red and plenty of empty greys In this atmosphere of annihilation,I am an artist with a heavy heart stuck with an empty canvas. I want to paint my paternal grandmother’s soul and my maternal grandfather’s laughter. I want to paint his r