I was thinking...

What secrets spoken    have gathered in the clouds?    and how long 'til they rain,    giving seeds of shame the pain they need to bloom?

Seven blind children on    a dead man's grave: The first started digging    and the second ran away, The fifth heard and echo    as the seventh crushed the fourth, The third was buried South,   and the sixth burned in the North.

Years went by, much the same as the rest, until, one day, the younger received word that the elder's wife had died. He felt a dust-mite of sorrow, but that was quickly replaced by a tick of high-minded absolution for the elder. The elder, in the eyes of the younger, had wasted the bulk of his life on a blind notion--the stubborn idea that his wife and marriage were truly worth all of that time and energy, only to see them both die. He laughed to himself and almost reveled in the thought that the elder was coming to this same realization. On the day, after the elder's quiet eulogy, sunny rain cried over the floating casket as it was lowered. "You deftly captured your feelings for the wife, my old friend," offered the younger, in the brightest corner of the mortuary. The elder was too broken to be corrective. "That is appreciated," he said, almost to the floor. The silence in the air felt like it was looking for the nearest exit. Suddenly, energy long lost ha