cry

 
 
He has the edge of me, the quill,  
and the waves of prolong prose.  
The hands move, they write with no  
purpose but to disappear into death minds.  
 
Meanings of grief,  
turning into dark stone, tear drop become  
ice drops, reach the end, and break  
into dry whispers of cry.  
 
©ElenaToledo2011