poetry by j matthew waters

the playing field

there is no stopping and staring
into darkness
there is just doing
or there is nothing else to do

(I used to raise my voice to be heard
because I was sure nobody would listen

who really does that anymore)

there is no reason for such foolishness
it only reminds me of punishments
handed out unjustly

(eventually getting kicked across the floor
becomes nothing but a diminishing recurrence)

though the sun and moon may shine
brightest at its apex
their lowest moments inspire me most
when the world is neither
alive nor awake
and the playing field is perfectly level

january two thousand fourteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

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