The Watch

 

True, I make my bed with a loners damnation and cold sheets that never seem to hold heat

Though I don’t quite spend my nights alone, at least not in the sense one would assume

 

From rasping skeletons strung by neck ties, Pleading for a place to rest through Morse code and curses

To moaning shadows pressing  the night, Pleading sanctuary  from the Execution lights just like I,  

 

To bleakest memories whispered by marauding sheep Looking for less remorseful fields to graze

Tired of the taste of anger, temptation,  lust, and disappointment, seasoned distastefulness.

 

To those that wait outside in jagged, jaded endless lines, all gazing towards my door,

All gazing from somewhere, something horrible and not, and more

 

The first in line was an elder scarecrow, dressed in his Steeple Sunday best, neck-tie noose and all

Rapping, in the words of Edgar Allan, gently rapping at my chamber door- with “horse thief” sign stapled to his vest

 

The second was a little old lady in a worn nightgown, soiled from head to toe from a long journeys filth, just searching;

For something or someone she hopelessly expected. She carried a portrait of Ed Gein in hand; she cherished that thing

 

We all, each of us wish to escape this place, each with our own reasons, all dealt by us, and us alone

Even the moon seems to cast his face away, and we had each once walked the nightwatch vigil

 

But we know not the tongues of each other, or the worlds between us, Though maybe perhaps we had once, and strayed away, or are even ever straying towards the way, for that matter.

 

What I think we are trying to say, is that together, for whatever the reason, we are the guardians here

We all watch this place, in whatever way, from whatever place, however strange to say. 

Reviews

[Vicky Carter]

I love this. You painted a picture with words of a place I used to work.

[A.J.]

Awesome! Thank you.