by James J. Dye
(Dubuque, IA, USA)
The sun sets. Silence is heard. I'm
Wet, filled with pain. It never dries.
The Judgment on my soul is mine,
as deep as the ocean goes, through.
I cannot sleep, I spill wine and type
of mysterious cheese and cliché tripe,
on this drug, poetry, the abyss of infinity.
A trapdoor to my soul, in the sand, that
river dripping down slowly from my lips,
searching, for commas, to remove the,
trapped between spaces. I’m worn out.
My heart, has no meaning, what a crime.