Once the tears have been cried, are they worth more than a pail of salty Atlantic water?

Grief is not pain, but torment;
   torment we crave when we know our beloved have died.

And who knows grief?
A people without a home?
A child without a mother?

A mother without a child?

It comes in the night, like a thief,
   but unlike a thief, it does not abscond before the day breaks.

Does grief have a name?
Sorrow?
Regret?
Death?
Empathy?

Or are these grief's friends?

The souls that know will not tell,
   and those that don't know won't either,
   even when they finally find out.

And they will.

This is not goodbye
Dry your lovely brown eyes
That I find mine
So often locked in a stare
Though I'm aware
Of the dangers that lie ahead
Rest peacefully in your bed
Knowing somewhere out there in an ocean vast and blue
I'm riding out the storms, coming home to you
A love that's true
Know that even as the world around me burns
This is not goodbye, I will brave the fires and to you I will return...

When these boots return from foreign lands
Covered with worn in dirt and desert sand
Tattered and worn down as the look in my eyes
May you be there, patiently awaiting my
Hopeful return from distant soil and raging seas
May you be there, waiting for me
My uniform faded from days under the sun on continents that are not my own
May you be there, waiting safe at home
My hands worn and rough as leather, but still as gentle as you remember
May you be there, after this long venture
Comes to a close
May you be there, you're all I long to hold
May you be there, should I ever make it home...