Angele Toomey Poetry

A short poem about the way that tears can form and what drives them, and the fact that sometimes a person may not be crying but stuff is still happening underneath the surface.

That tear
That tear could have formed
as a slow welling,
that grew with my pulse
until it spilt over
for a lonely run down my cheek.

Or it may have been one 
of many that erupted
saturating eyelashes,
dragging mascara down my face
in dirty rivers.

It might have embodied
all of the hopes and dreams
or rage that never
saw the light of day -
that tear never shed.