These are my invisible tears;
none but myself, nor seer, nor peer
these lost petals
in this deep field
of wild poppies
too numerous to count--
when such small slivers have fallen,
like dead peonies in the Amazon,
of no account in so great, so thick a jungle.
I’d sooner count the dew drops.
These are my hidden tears
bidding farewell to clear sight,
the eyes from which they drop
cannot see their number nor fountainhead.
Let me pretend to be someone else in front of others
so I may cry openly
with no awkward questions.
Lament shall be my secret hobby
until I find myself transplanted,
surrounded by that eternal garden,
a planting for the display of Your beauty.
Until then, do not count the hairs on my head
but the tears from my eyes
for they are as sparrows
and I am stripped in secret sorrow,
toe to crown.
these are my invisible tears
a poem by troy cady