poetry by j matthew waters


The bus took us only so far
and from there
we had to go by foot

Not everyone chose
to climb even higher
they remained at the base
napping in the bus
or browsing the curiosity shop
some watching the locals
playing chess
and enjoying a beer

As for the rest of us
it seemed like we were
stepping through a cirrus cloud
eventually reaching the solemn plateau
the inner graffiti centuries old
a voice inside you reaffirming
nothing down below
possibly matters

november two thousand twenty
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

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