Salted from bottom of the seas,
sometimes deeper than the oceans,
bitter sweet like the peach of your inflaming cheekbones,
clear like the chasm of mirrors.
Tears,
the rosary bids of sorrows,
the syrup of your heart,
laceration of your soul
from the scratch of innumerable
fingernails of thorns.
Tears,
migration of blood
to crystal clarity,
the magic sea change
of murky hurts,
into the pellucid springs.
