When news of my passing comes, will you shed a mourning tear?

Mothered by a heart, fathered by sadness and born of an eye.

Sparkling in the light, your eye to glisten as it is newly come?

Shall it puddle there slowly growing, waiting to spill forth?

Swell and cling to long lashes to save itself from its own fall.

Slowly then to be released and gently trail upon the cheek.

Will it pause at the edge of the height or race toward the end?

Cast itself into the air in misery to fall broken at your feet?