As a soft tear trickles by,
And the stream that you wish does not come.
As you wonder at all the why,
Guilt stricken is what you become.
The devastation you wrought about.
Upon yourself, upon others.
The aisles of mistakes you can scout.
All it does is tear you down.
And yet, leashed it remains,
The much wanted river,
For whose presence you crave.
And though crave you do,
If the torrents do surface,
The catharsis unleashed-
Will not be of sorrow purged,
But of succumbence.
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