Weathered

I cried you a river
Which flowed to an ocean
Ascended, collected, and was born again
Sun-breeze blown asunder by cold, bitter wind
The tangible salt of freshwater woes
Crystallized on the ends of my lashes

Emphasizing the ever present fear

That our joy would be drowned by our unending tears

 That our love-songs would fall upon unyielding ears
But above all the racket, this question rings clear:
Should we just close our eyes
And allow paradise to wash over us
And the things we hold dear?
Or do we continue along this cold path
To the end of the earth; till the end of our years?