it’s impossible to hear the spoken word
when the rains fall so hard
killing the song
making good intentions just plain wrong
these eyes find light in the strangest places
sitting alone in the dark room
conversing within
making up stories without lies or deceit
walking in broken shoes on crushed stone
I listen for the least sound
signals from the sun
still images of havens inside the wasteland
april two thousand seventeen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
