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poetry by j matthew waters

creation in waiting


bored by an ancient past
afraid of what lies ahead
I sit in front of metal easel
white canvas but a mirror
sable paint brush in hand

painting myself in and out
of an imperfect circle
how many times must I try
turning apple into orange
or barren earth into sky

I keep telling myself
a masterpiece is awaiting
one without a beginning or end
brimming with suspension
like a virtuoso escape artist




december two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

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