A Scrying of Crying

What becomes of these strange sums
of existence?  Each a series of seasons
of become, each a strum of key in a chord
of destiny, each a sight seen/a song heard

Even if only by a lonely night  

What becomes of these things?  Buried
in the ground, sent to ash in a flash or flurry,  
climbing the layers of the stratospheres
only to fall as feathery ice or heart-heavy

*   *   *

Tears

*   *   *

having a clarity of despair in the eye which peers