Tears

When the tears have been dried
and the towels been thrown
into the depths of history
they sit in the heat of no relief
because once they're in there
and nobody cares
they're like all criminals jailed.

And towels aren’t dainty strips of silk
that tear at the slightest touch
or delicate fabrics that shrink
to less than their former selves
and so of a towel it’s made to be true
to whatever’s confined in its mass.

‘tis just a reason to think more than less
when it’s the season for tears
because when left to flow free
they sink into the earth
and become distant, apart,
from history contained within.

And we’re all possessed of towels
still true to implanted agony
but I think that maybe one day
in the winter of complete discontent
towels will become as ice
able to thaw and be not as before.

So then are we not complete idiots
to mop up what needs to flow free
and keep it within until winter begins?