circa seventeen seventy-six
there is hammering on the rooftops
in the not so distant past
fading from the west
echoing in a rhythmic pattern
like an ode on a grecian urn
autumn appears on the horizon
& hell not far behind
communications
arriving from all directions
be it by wind or bird or plane
I’ve yet decided what century
I shall waste the next
thirteen hundred dreams
lost in the city of brotherly love
pretending to be mere mortal
september two thousand twenty-one
copyright j matthew waters
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