a voice that carries
it’s there
unmistakably there
like a little bird
waiting in the wings
shuddering occasionally
and whispering nonstop
even when it’s not there
it is there
but as you try to explain
to the woman in the mirror
words can’t express
what the whispers possess
windows open
as do doors
they open and shut like the
changing of the seasons
and just when you think
you’ve lost something inside
it returns in full flight
like a long-awaited echo
february two thousand seventeen
copyright j matthew waters
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