it’s impossible to hear the spoken word
when the rains fall so hard
killing the song
making good intentions just plain wrong
these eyes find light in the strangest places
sitting alone in the dark room
making up stories without lies or deceit
walking in broken shoes on crushed stone
I listen for the least sound
signals from the sun
still images of havens inside the wasteland
april two thousand seventeen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
I love this one, Matthew!!
Thank you, Dana!
I love the different layers of meaning in this poem, John. Introspective and timely. Have a great day, my friend 🙂
Thank you, Loredana, and likewise my friend.
wow. many layers–a little Hazel Motes at the end of his tether, readying himself to meet his maker.
Interesting comparison, I never would have made that connection, but certainly see what you mean. I bet it’s been 35 years since I’ve read O’Conner, an amazing and influential writer.
something about the broken shoes and the rocks triggered that memory. i believe he also had barbed wire wrapped around his torso at the end–very Christ-like. also the bit in your poem about the eyes in darkness– i think Hazel did away with his.