Why do they make us cry?

Fine. Why do they make us cry?

Why is someone dying like a
paper tissue blowing, or a sigh,
or a garden with trees from a
neighbour’s garden overflowing,
or the trees themselves in a
childhood garden, or the sky
which can’t be understood from
where I stand, or an adult hand,
or the shortness of my breath,
or the shortness of my breadth
of understanding compared to
those who’ve woven round this
planet longer.. 

No, no children’s
gardens; no, no chunky
puppies, no thorn-sting roses,
no, not the voice of someone
I’ve never met calling out to me,
calling, asking,
What the heck are you saying? 

As well he might. 

None of these. 

Why do I lie and lie? One
spoken, the other prone on a bed
woken from some dream full of
dread where my lies will finally be
seen as the token of who I really am.
None of these. By the by I don’t know
why I repeat None of these. I’m not
implying some deep truth-telling,
secret-selling – my secrets are all
dry, or drying, hung high on wire,
pegged there for all to see. See? My
secrets are not secret: they share
common humanity with Thee and me. 

Fine. Why do they make us cry?