to return as rose of any color
this place runs like a machine
or so weary migrants are told
especially when those in charge
are nowhere to be found
during downtimes god relaxes
inside art studio painting blue skies
high above snowy mountaintops
or conjuring up deadly vortices
tormenting defenseless islands
and populated coastlines
there are plenty of places to hide
but nowhere to run
unless of course getting
caught in the action
is all you have in mind
who will pick me up when I fall
or better yet
toss me back into the machinery
so that I may try one more time
october two thousand seventeen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
jdubqca 
Beautiful!
Thank you very much, Sofia.
man, this is good.
Thank you so very much, Margaret.
Wonderful, John! It’s hard to believe how fast you can write and post so many great poems. My muse has a mind of her own. 🙂
Thank you very much, Lauren, I’m honored and humbled by your comments here.
Sounds like God might indeed play the dices
absolutely – and the house always wins