He wells tears, up to the terrain of his conscious mind.
Aware of his pain, and those from others,
Brought to greater showers
Of those same tears,
Upon the sight of others, deep in their gloom.
He has saved, and has saved, again
With a mask that does not show his eyes.
They are too deep in the tears,
Too deep for the world to see.
Like the mind, he is aware, and like the heart, he stares.
And he dresses
For the manifold garbs of attire
Deep in his closet of memories.
He panics upon what to wear.
What he pulls for attire,
Is but the softest silk.
It is so much like the Earth,
Webbed in desires and sadness,
With tears caught in them, like flies in their chaos.