If They Had Left Tears Behind

If They They Left Tears Behind

The funeral was long.

The priest said words,

That was all they were.

They couldn’t save anyone.

Not now anyway.

The coffins sat pretty.

Sat still and looked pretty.

The bodies sat there.

Trapped in a tragic love story,

Or so I thought.

I guess they do makeup well.

At the morgue.

Covered up the bruises on her skin.

The evil in his eyes.

When the mass was over,

We stood up from our pues.

Polished leather,

Tapped against the tiles.

A queue formed.

To shake the hand,

The hand of their daughter.

A newly made orphan.

She dressed in black.

Black like the bruises on her skin.

Black and blue.

She was black and blue.

A broken doll.

Her hand was cold,

When I got there,

her hand was cold.

I looked into her eyes,

Dry as a desert.

Many claimed she was in shock.

But I saw the bruises on her skin.

She would have cried for their death.

If there was anything left inside.

If they didn’t make rivers flow from her eyes.

So often,

Too often.

If they hadn’t broken her.

I’m sure she would have cried.

If she hadn’t spent them all,

On them whilst they were alive.

I’m sure she would have wept.

Unable to dry does desert eyes.

If instead of bruises,

they had left tears behind.