Dry Tears

The delicate clasp of a child’s hand,

Each tiny finger- the color of sand.

They curl around a father’s thumb,

Unknowing of the things he has done.

A mother smiles with shaky teeth,

Flowers adorn her broken wreath.

“I love you” is whispered against silky skin,

As the storming thunder begins.

A baby raised to the cries of pain,

Unfamiliar with the feel of rain.

Blue and black, yellow and green,

Shades of nature driven by a scream.

No words of affection as there should be,

Only deceitful lies poisoning the roots of a tree.

No soft touch of love,

Only the death of doves.

When the wells dry up,

What should be left,

Where flowers once grew,

Why no lover lives,

Who loves to live.