poetry by j matthew waters

out of reach

he turned dirt into mud with spit
and gentle hands
nimble fingers changing malleable
clay into lifeless figurines

they possessed no soul
and no hearts beat inside to fuel
their starving minds

high up on a shelf they sat
out of reach from the many visitors
who called randomly
touring the estate but coming up empty
sent to find something inside
from forces unknown

that is all there is he would tell them
and they turned and left
disappointed but certain
there were prisoners inside the place
desperate to be saved

july two thousand fifteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

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2 thoughts on “out of reach

  1. *shiver* The hairs on the back of my neck raised up – – –

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