If I could cry, For whom would it be?
Perhaps the blind man,
Clutching in his fists a gleaming of more.
Perhaps the deaf man,
Sitting on his heap of crying souls in pain.
Perhaps the fat man,
Picking his teeth with the bones of quiet desperation.
Perhaps the rich man,
Tossing nickels down the well of soup kitchen hopes.
Or maybe the One who is crying for us all.
If I could cry anymore.
