The Tear That Never Fell Poem by Robert Rorabeck

As a humanity, we all try to get up above the rest:
Piling out substrata of delta-ing ladders towards the shoe polish
Of the next billboards:
And climbing up past the athletes of baseball games, or
Taking our winding buses to the shallows of fortunate and fame:
We seem to see each others’ bodies a wreathed in flame;
And the green parks do no good,
And the day laborers of orchards do no good- nor do the copper
Cannons who are above our reach on the old Spanish forts:
Nor do windmills, anymore:
And the horses with their knights just stop and lounge in the pine forests
With the old couches and their hobos:
And nothing truly makes love anymore- or a sound: not even the wind
Is good for listening- and all moves deathly quiet over ground:
And the roses have no smell planted over the murdered working
Girls whose names I cannot spell;
And it or we all go lumbering, gargantuan, as mute as a stone or
The tear that never fell.