In sequence they fell,

one-two, left-right,

salty stinging droplets

right on cue.

Tear-ducts spurred

into overdrive,

left-right, three-four,

painting grief.

Across her face

like a fresco it flowed,

five-six, left-right –

sorrowfully?

It seemed emotion,

left-right, seven-eight,

but she was a world-jaded illusion

weeping only scorn.