the death of a poet
my words bleed no more
bandaged and clotted
how they stop in their tracks
my entire body trembling
for the very last time
three angels hover above me
I pretend not to see them
and though they say nothing
I easily read their thoughts
just as they easily know mine
I ask for pen and paper
but nobody hears my call
so I arise from the table
unshaken and all on my own
resurrecting words left unsaid
september two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
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