The Trial

 THE TRIAL
Curried by the current, white wild waters
Torrent rust over, like a raging sea below. We drift hand in hand toward.
Dry land: to escape those tuning tides, from distant shores, at high noon. What do we do? Upside down, nearly drowned. Let go, or reflection on a distant shore, where we long to be: sinking under the waves, holding heaven in view:
With little evidence, we'll make it through.
The defense object! To the voices of hell.
We won’t let the prosecutor, the voice of nature, decide our ultimate fate.
His closing was: Did we pay the ferryman?
To get us to the other side.
Evidence of the defense rests.
Verdict today, lost in the fog.