To feel the teardrop pulling at your eye,
To trickle down your cheek it knows not why,
Yet hanging on brow’s edge, it seems to die,
For the fear of making you seem to needlessly cry.
Once on its course across the valleys of your face,
It sprints against itself, in an unintended race,
Obstructions on the way it will scarcely face,
Yet scared of drying up, if slackening in pace.
Starting humbly, the journey as a self-propelled drop,
It runs along, exhausting itself to a stop,
Consuming itself to create a narrow new way,
A way along which its successors would gladly play.
You are compelled by stimulus to brush it aside,
And it finally leaves, having enjoyed the ride,
To the observer, it makes no pretence to be coy,
For, the teardrop in itself, signifies neither sorrow nor joy.