A clot and half a tear

Not a tear rolled down a cheek, but hearts were beating, dials were depressed, lines were choked. Bombs had burst, splintering bodies and destroying the shoulders that bear the brunt of the burden of life's suffering.

A weight grew in my heart and refused to lighten. I don't know how many have died, I don't know those that have died. A tear finally struggles over the corner of my eye. It is not the city, it is not the meaningless mass murder, it is not the burden of knowing the cruelty of men. Just the pain of commuting a life sentence of suffering to death, a gash in humanity's battered but hopeful soul.

It is both too early and too late to ask questions of why. An honest thought slips between my sophistic perambulations over difficult terrain: had it been my heart that was hurt there would be none left of it. All I can offer is a clot in my chest.