To be occupied to the brim
Yet expel so little of that which occupies
The mind is the very reason we cry.
Though comfort is scarce provided from it
There is something to be said of
The beauty in the act.
A tear shed is but a story
From the eye of one morose in mentality
Yet ever hopeful of a cleared conscience,
For to cleanse that which has been contaminated
One must bring an end to such antagonism
And reside in a world of tranquility prevailed.
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