This is the wet, set in stone, dripping from a phone, a mothers cry, a babies sigh.
This is the dropping of pain, they’re feeling insane, when their screams are in vane.
These are the tears clouds bring, they tend to sing as they rip through the wings, birds fly in sync.
This is the damp reality, the truth in formality, the hidden mortality, beneath the fatality.
This is the ragging rapid, feeling pretty vapid, alone in the wake, mask of the fake.