Tears of my home

The rain drips like tears upon my window sill,
Half melted ice smudged like runny mascara
The sky blurry with the watery cold veil,
If I where to taste, would it sting with salt?

The rhythm of the wind against the glass
Tumultuous though clearly defined,
Yet the rain itself refrains inaudibly
Beaten, though the pain itself repressed.

The hollow wall shivers all the more,
Outside slicked with frozen water droplets,
An angry wind that will not topple its frame,
Though indeed, the cold is fierce

Another day, another storm, another year,
Blind is the house to time though not of age,
A creaking frame that would crack amidst gusts,
As surely it does, the foundation rots away.

New home, an ageless storm that is its first,
Half melted ice smudged like runny mascara,
The skeletal remains of a windswept home,
To rise is but to fall, beaten and repressed.
The tears of my home are not mine.
Those tears belong to all.