The sky is red amber and flashes of blue.
The clouds are flipping off in white and grey.
Shouting, I realize I am not heard.
Only billowing tales of winds
caress my limbs
as I ponder
Is a grave as deep as the sin that dug it?
The cigarette burns in the pewter ashtray.
The ashes scattered across the plate.
Screaming, I see I am un-noticed.
Save for the toxic waste
from the fingers
as I bleed.
Is death as final as the soul who craves it?
The pictures on the wall are softly changing.
The images are becoming jurors in a trial.
Crying, I realize the tears are dirty stains.
Except for the
the atmosphere of hell.
Is terror as deep as the soul who causes it?
The wind is deeply staining the frosted air.
The stars are standing as judges in a trial.
Sighing, I know the effort is futile.
With the exception
of the gasps
that I can be anything at all.