poetry by j matthew waters


it’s the same message
many years removed
waiting to be read
or heard
dying to be understood

void of any accusations
rife with insinuation
and inside jokes
words pretend not to be
what they seem

throughout the city
electronic billboards throw
darts into unsuspecting eyes
clouding them with mystery
perhaps mesmerized
by the power of the light

there was no crow
on sunday morning
ballasts and shades
transfigured into science
needing further observation

february two thousand sixteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

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