They glowed and they shone
as the rays bounced of their crown.
They trickled down his sides, crawling like a worm,
slithering through his brows like snakes moving through grass.
They made a path of their own moving through his lids,
his nose, his cheek leaving behind a moist trail of dirt on his dark skin.
As they curved on the bridge of his nose, wetting the hair above his lips,
he felt their salted kiss that tasted of a hard day's work.
They slid through his chin and dived to the ground
like a watery pearl crying "Geronimo" to meet their end.
They died and were born again at his brow, as they made their way through his face.
He stopped breaking the rock as he pulled out a cloth,
a testament to his grit that smelled of his strength, and soaked with his perseverance.
He wiped away the scoundrels that raced through his face,
he then looked at the sky that burned with rage.
As an unforgiving vengeance pierced through his skin
"Is that all you got?" he asked the fiery sphere with a wide grin.
With his chest gleaming with pride, and his arms drenched
he got back to work chiseling the rock with a tune in his lips. 
3 comments:
Calling tears scoundrels is a first time expression ever. Also, the general inhibitions about crying brought out pretty well. Like, like. :)
love it.
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