A Cycle

My memories fall like raindrops on the street of life – no particular order or path in time. Just memories into tears, tears into words. Words now ink the paper of what once stood tall, similar to how I once stood tall until I had my fall from a plateau of what I thought was love. It turns out I had taken the wrong path, and the cliff was only loneliness and self-hatred. The storm of my sorrow now releases each moment as though a child’s hand plummets into a bushel of berries to find the best one. A mess erupts with stained hands. While I enjoy what is left of me, all that was bruised and crushed leaks out, finding its way back to the soil where it came from.