Poetry

Drip...   Drip...   Drip...   Your lies Fall like desiccated Dreams— Splashing on the pavement of my soul.   Forty years later, Well’s run dry, Steady decimation Left a hole.   No woman, No cry.   A hole to fill With absurdities, Binaries, And boy toys.   I’m no Pinocchio. No lies detected, Accusations— Now tested.   Cracks along the Edges of the sidewalk, Covered up with children’s Doodles made of chalk.   Can’t hide the breaking— Silence of those who never talk.