Statuesque

 

Attentively he stands,

statuesque.

Still as night,

in darkness he listens,

in silence, for grotesque

insolent demons.

Fiendish beings,

devilishly targeting the innocent.

As moonlight glistens

over dew sprinkled grasses,

he wishes the hours would pass,

but alas the hour is early and darkness lasts.

 

Watching eyes adjust to the slate sky.

Through the inky air he sees what hides

in wait, in the darkness of this hour so late.

Faces pressed against windowpanes,

wicked grins painted on sinful shades.

He strains through the darkened view,

to catch a glimpse at those who

threaten the sleep, he marks them down in his book of night

in red ink, on these pages of names defeated,

beasts impeded,

sleep stealing thieves he has succeeded.

 

He spies a fox on the prowl,

hears the howl

of dogs in the distance.

The hoot of an owl,

the flap of a bat’s wings,

silhouetted against the moon

as the stars sing.

The orchestra of the night.

Children tucked up tight,

nightlights flickering in dim lit windows.

He vows to protect.

For the Watchman, the night always continues.

 

 

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Peace, Love and Poetry

Kyle