poetry by j matthew waters

one step closer to golden valley

the last of the great cities fell
piecemeal in a matter of minutes

it was the year the music
died for the third time
in all of human history

this must be it
or so said a cult of survivors
having managed to run off with
the whiskey & rye

they followed the stars by night
(and slept by day)
the owl & the red fox & fireflies
becoming their champions

the smell of destruction
gradually faded
from town to town
the only signs of life continuing
to be their own entourage

august two thousand twenty-one
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

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