Head bowed he stands.
downcast eyes
scan the ground.
Swaying
like a drunk
on a tightrope,
being led to the gallows
and the hangman's rope.
He can no longer cope.
The demons have won.
Alone.
He walks head down,
the voices in his head he can't drown.
The paranoid feeling is now so worn
that it's become a part of his costume.
His torn ripped jeans, his leather coat,
the guitar that no longer plays sounds of hope,
now just weeps.
The city sleeps.
He stands alone,
the city
no longer his throne.
The dream thieves
have made it their own.
Marched away down dark murky alleyways,
led astray, the night left its mark.
The watchman saw into the dark,
it stared back deep into his heart
and smiled. The wicked grin of inhuman beings,
Tauntingly they dance and sing.
They have him now deep in their lair,
they have him gripped by fear and despair.
The watchman downcast,
a morsel thrown to the wolves.
Consumed.
But in his eyes
always a glimmer,
and as the night grew dimmer
he struck back. The watchman saw the light
coming from a crack
and he fought
long into the night.
The demons put up a fight
but couldn't keep him down,
try as they might.
The watchman set alight
the wicked temple
of the thieves of night.
and he walked away. Battered and bruised,
to stop the nightmares
from coming true.
Thanks for reading
Please take a look at my new collection "Torn Pages"
100+ all new poems not shared here before.
https://tinyurl.com/KCtornpages
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