The Last Teardrop

Search Tags: Poetry, Poem


Wandering through the halls of my conscious, I look for a window to pierce through. Constantly seeking to find the answers that knock questionably on the doors of my heart. Lost and empty, the days of spiritual connectivity seem like a distant memory and then, a teardrop falls.

There’s a longing deep within… faint music playing feels resonant, but I can’t place the words to the song. The vibrations of my spirit seem to somewhat mumble the aria, as if it were something I’ve heard on the radio in passing. I can’t figure out what it all means and yet, another teardrop falls.

Why would this emotion, this distillation, spill from those pools just above my cheeks? Do we move through time so uncertain, so unaware, as to experience involuntary eruptions of emotion without any sound reasoning to the whys? Or do we already have all the answers we externally seek? Is it so difficult to be still and listen to the melodies of the universe, the beauty of one’s own heartbeat, or the rhythm of our very own breath?

Irony… I’m busier now I’ve ever imagined, yet my steps within the spiritual matrix are minute. Distractions within this holographic reality we call “life” create a foundation for a restless idleness, yet I never stop moving. My thoughts are constantly petitioned for attention by these daily contradictions, these dual yet distinct manifestations of choice and so, another teardrop falls.

My drums have been tapped by the vibrations of an audio guidance, but I ignore the gentle whispers that have urged me to look past the illusions. Why do my ears occasionally ring deaf to these sounds?

Life is such a bittersweet epiphany of all that is before us. Some will realize the truth of life’s simplicity, accepting that the complexities that we face are self created and self induced… that we create our own dramas out of our need to play out the roles that we believe will portray the portrait of our truths. We are the directors of these grand theatrical productions, who carefully merge our visions with those of others, perfectly aligned with one another, for unity and evolution. As I realize this, pain and joy are experienced simultaneously, my emotions in arrest. The revelation of my artistic ability becomes manifest. I am the author of my own script. Pain is in the resistance, joy is in the liberation of knowing and understanding the purpose.

For now I cannot smile nor cry, but I do await the moment when the last teardrop will fall and fall no more.


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