THE WATCHMAN

Rusty lament through a weathered whistle.

A dark silhouette covers the waking hours
of the watchman.

Fathers make sons count stars on it,
sitting atop terraces.

Faces.

Nameless, shameful.

Races, vengeful;
of being eaten within
by the monstrosity christened Fate.

These faces roam the street corners,
devoid of variety;
You wouldnt remember either if you
crossed one.

The watchman sees them totter,
watches them pile upon the gutters.

Vermin.

He now pauses and smiles,
for he has seen this down centuries.

Ageless, the Watchman made them walk;
right into the bowels of cursed fate
and Hoped.

Hoped that one day,
the faceless man would look up
and see the stars,
the ones his father showed him upon forgotten terraces.

But he doesnt.

The watchman shakes his head and walks back
into the first wisps of dawn.
For The New Day, has begun.