Drip

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.

By: C. Antoinette