The tears of the old are not easily shed. When they are, it is like the turning on of the valves. The out pour may be stifled but the internal weeps flow for yet a time unmeasured.
Beware the tears of the old. They are accompanied by the unseen gnashing of teeth and the internal beating of the brows.
Yes. The tears flow, flush and hot, like a stream. The lips quiver in unspoken words. The nostrils flare in red as the air is cut off in dribs and drabs.
Silence attends to the flinching of the muscles and stirs the air as if unrestrained.
Words fail and the humanity stares into the unknown. Comfort dithers in its consolation as the old shies away in solitude, the only warm embrace.
Beware, the tears of the old. They are not even tears of heartache. They are tears, finally released from the ducts frozen by the pursuit or experience, finally, unleashed.
Beware.
