I have a hand full of tears
Hiding years within my palm.
I'm gentle not to spill as I slowly stand.
I don't want to disrupt the calm.
I shouldn't have to carry these around,
Am I bound and not allowed to let go?
My body becomes weary,
Still crying my hands develop holes,
Through which each tear seeps
And leaks steadily unto the ground.
Impacting the dust into mud,
Developing a crown,
Baptized and ordained
By surrounding dust.